


The Tunnel & The Light

by Aoidos



Category: London Spy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living in denial has been lovely, but it is denial, nonetheless. Danny and Alex return to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tunnel & The Light

**Author's Note:**

> I would recommend reading Seven Year Revival and Revival before reading this follow-up simply because I make some references to those fics. Also, check out the drabble I wrote about Danny and Alex's time in the cabin: http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/post/142079699628/perhaps-a-tiny-london-spy-drabble-like-a-moment (particularly for background information on Pricilla and their wedding)
> 
> Seven Year Revival drabbles: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5198723
> 
> Revival fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5552087

Pricilla is a slow learner who defecates in unacceptable places, and worst of all her bladder is prone to purging in unfortunate areas like inside Alex’s slippers and within the armoire where he keeps his clothes, pawing open the heavy doors even though Danny has done everything in his power—including wrapping the handles with a rubber band—in an effort to keep out the kitten. He’s been house training her for a month, and finally— _finally_ —she’s occasionally using the litter box located in the small ancillary room that contains their washer and dryer. But still…Danny realizes her position within their small family is precarious. Alex never expresses an intent to excommunicate her, of course, but he does sigh upon discovering a pool of urine oozing across the floorboards of their bedroom, and even utters a quiet, “Oh dear,” which is the Alexian equivalent of an epic meltdown.

“She’s just a little traumatized…from being out in the cold for so long,” Danny nervously explains while scrubbing the baseboards.

Alex offers a soft look and kneels beside him to help in the clean up effort. “I won’t send her away,” he promises, brows ascending when Danny offers a relieved look, “I’m not so posh that I can’t handle a bit of cat urine, Danny.”

He’s so unaccustomed to Alex being cheeky that it takes him a moment to realize he’s joking. He looks into Alex’s tender gaze, the laugh arriving by way of a relieved sigh.

The Pricilla situation passes for drama in upstate New York. Their lives are so blissfully banal that Danny genuinely begins to forget his former life: all the hurt, pain, and fear. He has Alex, who treats him like a prince, and he loves their small community comprised of a handful of friends. Even the cold ceases to bother him once his body acclimates and Alex finally upgrades their electrical and heating systems. They are married now, each sporting a simple silver band on their ring fingers, and Danny sometimes looks up from his toast and eggs in the morning and watches Alex seated across from him at the kitchen counter—sandy head bowed, thick black lashes dusting his cheekbones that curve like the hilltops in a pastoral painting—and he can hardly believe his luck.

He tries to remember to tell Alex he loves him every day, even the days that seem to pass in the blink of an eye because so little transpires and each moment is serene. Danny never wants to take him—or this, all of this—for granted. His love feels too small sometimes, like he is a poor consolation prize for a man like Alex, but then again he knows Alex would not have gone to the effort of finding him and bringing him here if his affections were subpar.

Mostly he is happy, but the old insecurities and doubts linger along the periphery of his vision, visiting ghosts in the night that manifest as nightmares in which Alex stands among a group of his former peers who laugh in disbelief that Alex threw everything away for a street rat like Danny. And Alex looks unsure, perhaps for the first time considering all the mistakes he’s made. Somehow, Danny has ruined them. Danny, or some extension of Danny: some decision he’s made, or some mistake, or some associate has done something unforgivable and now Alex knows Danny is unworthy of his love. He awakes in cold sweats, tongue tasting like copper from the runoff of blood where the teeth sunk into his cheek’s soft flesh.

On his darkest days, he’s not sure they’re starting over so much as hiding from their old lives, and yet Danny is so in love that he would rather live eighty years of denial with Alex than face the cold, hard truth of life without him. Even if they have to use fake names. Even if Alex can never pursue his real career passions. Even if they will die in obscurity, never again to contact their parents or loved ones, destined to be a mystery without answers.

This is the fate that Danny has accepted like the warm embrace of deep sleep after a too-long journey. He had assumed Alex was on the same page until one afternoon when the clouds part and a thick beam of white light pours through the sliding glass doors, warming a patch of floor upon which Pricilla curls up like a cotton ball. The peacefulness of the scene is violated by a small yellow pool located nearby, between Pricilla and the kitchen. Alex is looking at it and thoughtfully frowning when Danny walks downstairs. “Oh, I’ll clean it up,” he says quickly, incorrectly assuming Alex is confounded by yet-another kitten-related accident. The man doesn’t speak, and so Danny grows nervous and begins to babble: “She’s been much better about it,” he continues, flashing a smile as he kneels on the floor and begins the mopping up process with a paper towel. “Her first accident this week and it’s Friday.”

“I received an email this morning,” Alex suddenly says and Danny leaves the wet towel on the floor, sits back on his heels, and looks at him. Alex is pale, jaw locked in a way that means he’s nervous. “From the Ministry of Justice.” Danny’s feet and hands are numb, and yet he manages to stand. His brain already supplies the worst: MI6 is calling Alex back and using the legal system to litigate him into submission. He is unprepared for what Alex says next: “MI6 is being dissolved. The government is suing them.”

The cabin is so quiet. Outside, far away, a bird caws. “They can sue MI6? Isn’t MI6 part of the government?”

“The Prime Minister is calling them a cancer inside the country, so apparently not anymore.” Alex’s gaze is far away. He shakes his head, “It’s mad. There’s going to be a public hearing. People are going to testify against MI6—about all the things they’ve done.”

Ice flushes out the blood in his veins when he understands: “No,” he gasps, stooping to pick up the paper towel, and disposing it in the kitchen rubbish, “Absolutely not,” he mutters, aggressively washing his hands in hot water, strangling a dollop of blue dishwashing soap into his palm from the almost-empty bottle. He imagines the small grocery store where they do their shopping for food and household items. Then his brain supplies Susan Burks’ smiling face. He can smell stale sweat inside the small studio where they’ve been taking dance lessons. Danny blinks and sees the watermark-stained walls of town hall, feels Alex gripping his hands, fingers quivering in excitement from all the adrenaline just before he says _I do_.

“Danny…” Alex begins.

“Why does it have to be you?” he pleads, almost shouting, the noise waking Pricilla who lifts her head and accusingly glares at him. “It’s been _three years_. We have our lives here.”

“Our home is England,” Alex responds, ever the pragmatist, naming the thing that Danny has for so long refused to admit. He misses Sara and Pavel, the swagger of English lads, cobblestone streets, a decent cup of tea, the tube, Sainsbury’s, really good chocolate, black cabs, kebabs, _Eastenders_ , football, the drunks, the whole bloody mess of it. His heart beats with the bass of its trashy clubs. He met the love of his life suspended about the Thames. London is in his blood. “And it has to be me because I’m the one they tortured.” Danny has never heard him say those words before. He gropes for the kitchen stool and sits down hard. Alex approaches him slowly, like he’s a cornered wild animal, “They want you to testify too.”

Danny stares at him. “They can get fucked,” he says before thinking. Alex’s eyes widen in surprise and Danny’s face burns from anger and embarrassment at his recalcitrant behavior. He doesn’t want to disappoint Alex, but he hates these people and wishes the very worst for them, “They ruined our lives. I don’t give a toss what the Prime Minister or anybody _wants_. I want to be with you. I want them to leave us alone.”

“Danny, I want to testify.” He swallows past the lump in his throat, eyes burning with tears because that he cannot fight. He cannot deny Alex anything he truly wants. The man reaches across the kitchen counter and covers his hands. “I want to send these people to prison. I think confronting them will help me. I hope you’ll testify too, but I’ll support you if you don’t want to.”

His palms turn, the fingers fiercely gripping Alex’s, but he never winces or complains, not even when Danny clings to him. “What if it’s a trick? What if they take you away again?” He can’t stand the look of sympathy Alex casts his way, so he continues rambling, “What if they take me?” He’s young and frightened, sitting in a hospital room, waiting to find out if his blood is poisoned. He’s standing in a dark, cold field, gaping upwards at the swinging silhouette of Scottie’s body. “These people are monsters. They’ll hurt us if you testify.”

“No, they’ve no power anymore. They can’t hurt us,” Alex dismisses, maddeningly calm. “And you’ll be able to clear your name. Everyone will know what they did to us. They’ll know the truth.”

He laughs dryly. The truth is a fairy tale, something little children are taught. The truth doesn’t count; the only thing that matters is power. And despite what Alex says, Danny doesn’t believe MI6 will go down without a fight. If anything, during their final days, they will be at their most dangerous like a wounded animal desperately lashing out. “I don’t care about my name. I care about losing you. Why are you willing to risk our lives together?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to break and hates the weakness when it results in Alex looking grief-stricken.

He watches as Alex rounds the island and releases a clenched breath when the man touches him, tenderly cradling his face and head before guiding him forward. Danny’s cheek presses to his chest and he inhales greedily, breathing in his scent. He loops his arms around Alex’s waist, clinging to him. “I hated myself for being a coward before. It took me so long to accept who I am, but you helped me do that. And I repaid you by lying and evading your questions. A man doesn’t lie, Danny. He doesn’t run or avoid conflict. I allowed these people to scare me and dictate my happiness, but if I can look them in the eyes and show I’m not afraid…” Alex trails off, unsure of what to say next. His words move Danny, some of the tears leaking out and wetting the flannel of his shirt. He wants to say that Alex doesn’t need to prove anything to him because he knows Alex is a good man. “I’ll be able to sleep at night. I’ll be a man who is worthy of you.”

“Alex…” he whispers, but can say no more. _You’re worthy_ , he thinks. _You’re worthy, you’re worthy._

“Will you testify?” Alex asks, the words rumbling in his chest, and Danny is glad he doesn’t have to look at him when he replies that he doesn’t know.

 

* * *

 

Danny strips and climbs under the sheets to wait.

Alex is just finishing up some odds and ends: readying the last of the bags that hold their scant possessions. They never became hoarders, not even when it was clear that MI6 wasn’t hiding somewhere out there in the dense forrest preparing to attack. Not even when they had stability and safety did Danny and Alex begin to collect clothing or books. Maybe they’ve always known deep in their hearts that they would return to London one day.

Maybe neither of them knows how to be still.

The goodbyes were performed in a single day: Danny, standing misty-eyed in the Burks’ home, sputtering his way through an embarrassing soliloquy, some pathetic attempt to thank them for their patience and understanding. Never did Susan or Irvin demand details of their pasts, or fuel gossip about their hesitancy to answer certain questions. Susan had pulled him into a fierce embrace and rubbed his back like she was grinding sticks in an attempt to make fire. “You take care of yourself, young man,” she cheekily whispered, but her voice wavered at the end.

They also tell some of the couples they’ve met during dance classes. Details vague: Alex’s work. Relocation. Overseas. No one asks follow-up questions because it’s so obvious Danny and Alex don’t want to provide the answers.

Then came the packing. Also an easy task given their few possessions. Danny wanders around the cabin, touching surfaces, committing feels and smells to memory. He loves and hates the cabin. He loves it because Alex lived here, and this is the place where Alex came back to him. But he hates it for its isolation, for the cabin’s gall to live thousands of miles away from the city Danny adores. The past few years have felt like a dream, but returning to the city where they met will solidify their reunion.

Alex brings home a carrying case for Pricilla that is large enough to accommodate a small dog. “It’s too big,” Danny notes.

Alex considers the case for a moment and replies: “She may like to stand and stretch her legs,” and he says this with a face like stone, perfectly serious, which is when Danny realizes he must be remembering his time in MI6 custody. In the trunk. Long limbs curled and atrophied. On damp days, his shoulder still hurts from the ordeal. Danny crosses the room and kisses him, and Alex doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

Tasks distracted Danny from the gnawing anxiety, but now that the sun has sunk behind the tree line and he accepts that this is their last night in the cabin, he is visited again by his old foes: dread and uncertainty. Danny would very much like for Alex to stop sorting and organizing and come to bed, but sometimes it’s difficult to break Alex out of the tunnel vision of a mission. Which is why Danny has brought out the big guns, stripped, and is waiting for Alex to wander upstairs and check (for the third time) that their bedroom is properly packed.

Right on schedule, Alex appears in the doorway, casts one look at the sealed boxes, and then notices Danny. A slow smile breaks across Danny’s lips when he sees the surprise on Alex’s face. “Come to bed,” he says and Alex only hesitates for a moment before he obeys. _I have to check—_ he begins, idly, not bothering to finish the thought once Danny peels back the sheet to reveal he’s entirely nude. Alex lays heavily atop Danny and kisses him, Danny squirming and yanking off Alex’s pajama bottoms, pulling the t-shirt over his head, and smoothing Alex’s mussed hair as he smiles against his lips.

They’re experienced enough these days to avoid clumsily discussing logistics. Danny can simply tell by the way Alex moves: if he allows Danny to roll him onto his back, if he makes quiet, hungry noises into his mouth when Danny’s hands stroke the small of his back. Other times, Alex is assertive, grabbing and pinning Danny to the bed, and he knows the man wants something else from him. Tonight, they are tender and unhurried, and Alex doesn’t fight him when Danny turns and drapes atop him. Alex tastes like mint and tea, and Danny blindly searches the bedside table, fingers instinctively feeling for the cool plastic of the tube.

Alex inhales sharply against his lips on the first push and Danny kisses and nuzzles his soft beard, waiting as the man relaxes in increments until it’s possible to move again. The ferociousness of Alex’s embrace hasn’t changed or diminished, the desperate way he grabs and holds Danny like a life raft, but these days Danny is better equipped to navigate the furious need, stroking and cajoling, whispering against Alex’s burning brow when he’s breathless from kissing him.

Alex’s groans are loud in the newly emptied cavern of their bedroom.

“Will you testify?” Alex asks afterwards, when their sweaty crowns share the same pillow and Danny is stroking his chest.

“Alex…” Danny begins, suddenly once more overwhelmed by the enormity of what they’re about to face: returning to London, entering a media circus, joining an enormous lawsuit against a powerful institution. He can’t commit to anything right now. He can’t even organize his thoughts on the matter.

Alex kisses the top of his head. “It’s okay,” he says, and Danny feels horrible again for disappointing him.

 

* * *

 

Alex arranges the move and travel, and in seeing him negotiate the steep cost of moving them from the remote cabin, Danny is newly struck by his brutal efficiency. Unlike when he speaks with Danny, Alex does not emote when he dictates to the tall, broad men, and instructs where each box should be moved and in what order. Danny imagines that this is how he must have spoken to Frances during his formative years: Cold. Detached. Danny hates him like this. He wants to shoo away the strangers so it can just be the two of them again. But then he knows that’s not possible; indeed, it won’t be just the two of them for quite a while once they return to London and the press sinks their claws into Alex’s meaty story.

“We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?” Danny asks when they’re alone, one final time, in the bedroom.

They’re standing so close under the skylight that Danny can feel Alex’s breath wash across his cheek. “I think…” Alex begins, cradling his face, the calloused pads sending delicious tremors up Danny’s spine, and he leans into the embrace, “We’ve been living in denial, and even though it’s been wonderful, it’s been denial nonetheless.”

Danny can only nod weakly because he knows Alex is right. The snow-capped cabin. The crackling fire. The occasional fawn wandering across their backyard, observing them with wide, surprised eyes. They’ve been living in a fairytale while the men and women who hurt them so badly carried on, hidden and safe from retribution.

It’s not fair, and for a man like Alex, who waged a war on secrets and lies, the presence of such injustice has been slowly driving him mad.

“I love you,” he says, alternating between tugging Alex’s shirt and smoothing out the wrinkles. The realization that this is the last time they’ll be in the cabin together crushes the air from his lungs.

Alex pulls him forwards so Danny wraps his arms around his neck. “Nothing will separate us again,” he promises, and Danny knows he’s right. MI6 threw their worst at them and they weren’t able to pry them apart. They tortured Alex, tried to drive Danny insane, and still they failed.

Danny kisses Alex, a small, defiant section of his brain hoping they’ve bugged the cabin—that there’s a camera hidden in the light fixture—so MI6 can see their rebellious union.

 

* * *

 

Alex secures the collar of his jacket, bows his chin, and walks out into the world without a second look back at their empty cabin. No longer theirs. No one’s cabin; one day: someone else’s cabin. Danny lingers by the door. The same door against which he huddled all those years ago, trembling, refusing to accept Alex is alive and well. His gaze slides from the foyer to the dormant fireplace where they writhed and clawed in unbridled passion. He looks at the kitchen, which somehow looks smaller with less stuff in it.

Everything is still and silent.

“Danny,” Alex says from the front porch, and he slips outside.

 

* * *

 

Reentering civilization is strange, as it always is when they emerge from the cabin and plunge back into the real world like a cold bath. The presence of other people is always a shock to Danny, who has to reacclimate to the drone of voices and the violation of his personal space, especially when an airport security worker pulls him out of line for a more intensive search. Fear grips him, and when he looks over his shoulder, Alex is intensely watching the interaction, probably dreading the same thing: another trick, an excuse concocted by MI6 to disappear Danny and use him as leverage against Alex.

Warily, he watches the young TSA agent wave the wand around his appendages, and only when the inspection is done and the man says, “Okay, you can go,” does Danny realize it isn’t a trap and he isn’t going to have a black hood pulled over his head.

“Everything is all right,” Alex reiterates when they’re reunited behind security, perhaps attempting to convince himself as well.

Pricilla hates her case and mews and cries the whole time she is confined. One of the unexpected benefits of having her with them is security waves them through without bothering to closely inspect their passports or pry too deeply into why Danny has been staying in the United States for so long. They can’t stand the sounds of her crying either. Alex balances the case on his knees when they’re waiting in the private lounge and whispers words of encouragement to her. It actually gets her to stop crying for a bit, and Danny offers a soft look when Alex glances at him in excitement that he’s discovered a new talent: cat charmer.

Danny wants to say he’s always had an ability to soothe strays, but doesn’t want to shatter the serene moment.

He is exhausted and rumpled with stubble sprouting along his jawline by the time they board the plane and he collapses into his chair by the window. For as fatigued and emotionally drained as he is, Danny knows Alex must feel a thousand times worse, and indeed when he looks over, Alex’s head is resting against the seat, darkened eyes clenched shut as if willing the weariness away. Danny covers his hand and squeezes it, offering a reassuring smile when Alex’s eyes open and their gazes meet.

“We’re going home,” he whispers.

The corner of Alex’s mouth lifts. _Home_. It’s the first time Danny has fully expressed his support of the idea that there is a home for them to return to. As their fingers lace, the knob of Alex’s throat bobs, and the light pouring through the small window reflects off the unshed tears, Alex’s eyes shimmering like a placid lake. “I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, not for the first time. Alex has never been able to fully shake the belief that he failed to protect Danny—that all the terrible things that have happened to them are his fault. Danny secretly hopes confronting their abusers will help assuage him of such destructive thoughts.

“I know,” he replies, stooping down to kiss the backs of Alex’s knuckles and then his shoulder. Alex is not a fan of public displays of affection, but he allows this one small offering because it’s Danny’s way of showing that he believes they’re doing the right thing and that they can face the unknowable together.

A graying man with the face of a bulldog glances at them from across the aisle, brow furrowed, before looking away. The spike of fear comes…and goes when Danny decides he is probably simply homophobic and not an agent.

Alex’s hand slips away, but only so he can reach down and pick up the case, resting it on his lap. Danny bends down and smiles at Pricilla, waving at her and making soothing noises. She is uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps sensing that they’ve relocated to alien terrain. Danny wonders if the sound of the plane’s engine is scaring her, if to her ears it sounds like a thousand charging beasts. Ears flatten against her head when the plane begins to move, and then increases speed, and she disappears entirely to the back of the case when they lift off, the engine’s roar and changing altitude popping Danny’s ears.

Alex sleeps like the dead for the majority of the flight as if finally giving in to a profound exhaustion that he’s been busily denying for several years. Danny, on the other hand, cannot sleep a wink. He is jittery and stands several times, carefully navigating around the bulk of Alex and Pricilla’s cage, so he can use the loo or simply walk up and down the aisle and stretch his legs. Occasionally, someone will look at him out of curiosity, and he has to remind himself it’s that and nothing more. No one is spying on them. No one is hunting them. Those days are over.

He hopes.

He can barely wake Alex for their meals, and even then the man wordlessly shovels the food into his mouth, and then drops off again before the flight attendants can even clear away the rubbish. Alex doesn’t even stir when Danny finally peels Pricilla’s case off his lap and stores it by his own seat. He watches the man’s face for a while, reaching up to stroking a few errant strands off his brow. Alex’s skin is warm to the touch and his cheeks are flushed beneath the sandy beard as if exerting himself in his dreams. Running. Fleeing from pursuers unknown.

“I’m okay,” Alex says immediately when Danny does manage to wake him. He says this even though his pupils are blown and his brow is damp with perspiration. Danny hands him a cool can of Sprite and Alex looks at it for a moment before Danny takes it from him, pops it open, carbonation hissing as he pours the beverage across the ice in a plastic cup.

Alex is not okay. He’s still having the nightmares. Trapped inside the trunk, unable to escape.

“I know,” he lies, knowing Alex feels better if he thinks Danny isn’t consumed by worry and fear. He reaches down to touch Alex’s free hand, stroking the wedding band, while he gulps the drink.

Alex watches him and sets down the cup on the tray. “We’ll stay in a hotel for a few days until we find a suitable flat. Unless you’d like a house.”

It’s then that Danny realizes he hadn’t considered where they’ll live in London. As always, he’s simply decided to trust that things will work out. Alex is meticulously examining the parachute while Danny leaps from the plane, choosing to believe the parachute will open. He thinly smiles at Alex’s casual offer to buy him a house, still finding the cavalier attitude of wealthy people amusing. “A flat is fine,” he says, adding, “I’d like to stay in the city.”

Alex nods and looks into the cup, to the gradually melting ice cubes that turn in the base as he shifts it in his palm. “No where with an attic.”

Danny looks up in surprise, lips curling when he sees the playful gleam in Alex’s eyes. “No,” he agrees.

 

* * *

 

The air smells different. Danny didn’t know that until he returns home and breathes in London again. He’s unable to linger and enjoy it, however, because they (and their luggage, plus Pricilla) pile into a cab and zip away from the airport. “I thought it would be more difficult,” he says, referring to their quick trip through customs. The agents barely glanced at their forms.

Alex tugs at the collar of his jacket and casts a guilty look his way. “I told the government I would testify before we left.”

Danny presses his lips together and looks out the window. Between them is Pricilla’s case and she mews in concern. “Oh…” he weakly replies, suddenly understanding why their trip has progressed so uneventfully. Alex is being given the VIP treatment because he is the government’s star character witness against MI6.

“I wasn’t withholding information from you,” Alex quickly adds, afraid Danny will think they’re falling back into old habits: Alex lying and being evasive, Danny feeling foolish for trusting him. “I told you I intend to testify—”

“I’m not angry,” Danny says, flashing a smile before looking back to the scenery whipping by. He just wants to look at the city in silence for a little while, which they do, until Alex asks the driver to stop in the middle of traffic.

He hands the driver the address of the hotel and a wad of bills with the explicit instruction to leave their luggage at the front desk. Danny looks at him in confusion before Alex smiles slightly and says: “I thought we’d walk,” and pointedly nods towards the windshield—more specifically, a few yards up the road where Waterloo Bridge stretches across the Thames. The place of their meeting. Danny feels impossibly tender towards him, unable to speak as he climbs from the cab and watches Alex close the door behind them, Pricilla’s cage hanging from his left hand, tilting him slightly. Danny takes his arm and they walk slowly, occasionally weaving and sidestepping tourists and Londoners until they’re standing in the exact spot where Alex first spoke to him.

“I was sad when I first saw you,” Alex suddenly says, a breeze whipping his hair, “I thought you symbolized everything I’d like to be.” Danny leans against the railing, pressed against his arm and flank and says: _You didn’t know me_. “No,” Alex agrees, “But I could discern enough: You were out late, or early, depending on one’s definition. Dressed for the clubs. Disheveled.” Danny tosses an amused look and he almost smiles, “You’d been dancing.”

“I had been,” Danny confirms.

“I don’t believe in energy or auras, but you had a…heat that came off you. You were wild and free. I was madly jealous.” He clears his throat, “I _thought_ I was jealous because I couldn’t comprehend that I wanted you.”

Danny doesn’t know what to say. He’s stunned Alex is being so candid, and in public, no less. He wonders if the same reckless spirit that motivated Alex to testify against his torturers is also inspiring him to confess his darkest desires within earshot of total strangers.

“Luckily, I decided for the both of us,” Danny teases, his knee knocking the grilled face of Pricilla’s carrying case and she meows in objection. Danny glances down and sighs, “Let’s get her to the hotel. The noise is probably terrifying her.”

They walk slowly past Covent Garden’s crowded marketplace all the way to Soho’s bougie shops and theatres. He looks in every window, at every display, at every outlandish fashion statement. Danny loves every moment of it and wishes the walk could last forever. He can sense that Alex feels differently, however, given he has to navigate the bulk of Pricilla’s case, and does not possess the temperament to humor large crowds. They’ve lived in isolation for years, and while Danny has been able to swiftly switch gears and acclimate to city life, he can tell the process is slower for Alex.

Alex has booked a suite in a five-star hotel in the heart of Soho, the building’s facade a blend of austere pillars and unassuming brick. The interior is ultra-modern: onyx and marble, sleek and spotless in a way that Danny knows pleases Alex. Danny appreciates the pops of color in the lobby, bright bursts of throw pillows and chic burgundy curtains that pour from the ceiling like waterfalls of wine. There’s a cascade of flowers at the front desk—an absolutely massive bouquet of pinkish-white flowers emitting such a sweet smell that Danny has to fight the urge to bury his face in the buds and inhale. His first impulse is always to touch, to smell, to experience life viscerally with all his senses, and Danny doesn’t understand how others seem impervious to such wants.

Alex stands rigidly at the desk like a soldier awaiting orders. “The reservation is under Turner,” he says.

Danny wants to say he should have used a fake name, but knows Alex will accuse him of paranoia. It’s true, he is still paranoid. He plans to inspect every inch of their room for bugs. Sensing they are in a safe space once more, Pricilla emits a few exploratory mews when they are riding the lift up to the third floor. “I know,” Alex responds, his tone light and kind. Danny thinks it’s the voice of a father, and the random thought causes a deep pulse of panic and pain. They’ve never discussed the concept of children because their lives had never seemed equipped to accommodate such a decision.

And Danny knows now is not the time to breach such a serious discussion—not when Alex is mentally preparing to face his tormentors.

The suite is beautiful: a perfect combination of modern and vibrant. Bare birch branches stretch along a wall of glass beside a black statue of Venus. Their view is rooftops and twinkling lights. The furniture is dark, contrasted by the bouquet of white flowers on the coffee table. This time, Danny caves to the impulse and leans down to smell them. While there, he pushes aside the stems and slips his finger along the lip of the vase, inspecting it. It’s clean. Their bags are waiting for them in the bedroom, sitting at the foot of the kingsize mattress. Danny squats by them, pretending to make sure all their things are there, and then flips up the comforter to check underneath the bed. No bugs there either.

“There you go,” Alex says from the main room, and Danny sees a newly liberated Pricilla dart across the room, “I’m going to throw the newspaper in the rubbish and clean her cage,” he says. Danny wanders into the parlor and watches Alex disappear into the small kitchenette area. He’s chosen a living space that could accommodate them for many weeks. Perhaps detecting Danny’s line of reasoning, Alex appears a moment later and says, “We can start looking for flats tomorrow.”

Pricilla hurries from new spot-to-new spot, exploring the foreign terrain. Danny nods and says: “I’ll get her litter box set up.”

They’re lost in their respective tasks until the sun has set and the parlor’s lights automatically illuminate the space. Danny lounges on the couch, a now-calm Pricilla sprawled across his lap, tail lazily flicking now that her belly is full of kibble and she’s familiar with the layout of the suite (including the location of her litter box, which is temporarily residing in the loo). The washroom’s door is shut, and has been, for the last fifteen minutes. Danny is just about to ask Alex if everything is all right when the door opens, accompanied by a drifting cloud of steam.

Alex has showered and—

Danny stands up. “Oh,” he softly declares as a freshly shaven Alex emerges from the loo. He’s even trimmed his hair a bit, leaving him to look exactly as he did all those years ago—before innumerable forces converged in an effort to destroy them. Pricilla jumps to the floor, meowing in outrage that she’s been disturbed, but Danny doesn’t hear her. “You look nice,” he manages to say.

“I thought…for the hearing,” Alex says, rubbing his jawline, as if reacquainting with the sensation of his skin.

Danny misses this explanation because he’s still staring like he had done as Alex wandered from the washroom draped only in a towel when they were still awkward and fumbling around one another. His fresh cut and shave are subverted by Alex’s attire, which is still the woodsman look: a plaid shirt and jeans. His £10,000 suits were abandoned inside the old London flat. Alex will need to rebuild his old life with all its accoutrements.

He crosses the room and grasps the sides of Alex’s face, pulling as he pushes upwards to kiss him. The skin is smooth and soft under Danny’s fingertips, his flesh smelling of spicy aftershave, and Danny hums in approval. Alex’s embrace is so strong that it hurts a little, pressing the air from Danny’s lungs, and he happily groans, the kiss transforming into something hungry and desperate. Danny would like to fuck in the parlor, bent over an armrest or draped atop the overstuffed ottoman, but Alex is still a traditionalist in many ways, primarily in his unwillingness to fornicate in front of an open window or Pricilla.

They stumble into the bedroom, Danny kicking the door shut behind them. When they first got Pricilla, she had a habit of interrupting their moments of intimacy, and once he saw her wide, naive gaze, Alex was unable to perform. Now, they close the door. If he’s feeling especially needy, Danny locks it.

Danny locks the door and unbuttons Alex’s shirt with trembling hands. The man’s gaze is curious, perhaps wondering what’s gotten into Danny, and Danny doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening: everything about Alex drives him mad, including the idea of raising children with him. Alex would be a calm, patient, capable father—the opposite of Danny’s father. _You’d be so good to us_ , he thinks when he leans down to kiss and suck along Alex’s chest, rubbing his cheek against the soft hair.

As usual, Alex’s hands are efficient in undressing Danny and he sprawls on his back upon the bed, dragging Alex forward by a wrist. “Fuck me, okay?” he breathes, stroking his cock with a free hand. Alex is glassy-eyed, watching, casting a helpless look around the room before he sees that Danny has already laid out the tube in anticipation of this moment. Danny’s legs loop around his waist, pinning him in place even as Alex reaches to the side for the lubricant.

Outside, Pricilla mews and Danny hungrily kisses Alex to distract him. It works: Alex’s hand wedges between them and Danny wiggles, legs spreading to accommodate him, and he whimpers when the first finger pushes inside. It’s cold and wet, but then Alex adds another, presses deep, and Danny moans loudly, head tilted backwards so Alex can nose the underside of his jaw and kiss along the bone. His cock is hard and throbbing, a bead leaking out to run down the underside. Danny gropes the bed, pulling at the comforter, reaching up and seeking purchase on the headboard. He can’t touch himself or he’ll come far too early.

“Now…now,” he chants desperately, unable to get his tongue to cooperate and say anything else. Alex moves swiftly, slicking his cock, and pressing the head inside. “Ah!” Danny cries, so enormously relieved that his voice embarrassingly breaks. He pulls his legs back so that they’re draped over Alex’s shoulders, knowing the man will never bend him on his own because he’s afraid of hurting Danny. His legs are thin splayed across Alex’s muscular shoulders, the sight causing more rivulets to pour down his cock. This is going to be quick, so he wants to make the most of it. “Hard,” he breathes.

Alex nods once, face stoic, but Danny knows that’s because he’s fiercely concentrating on not coming. He sets a brutal pace, stars exploding in Danny’s eyes, and it’s glorious—exactly what’s he asked for—his frame bouncing across the mattress until his head nearly collides with the headboard. He cries out again, and again, until his voice shatters like glass. He claws at Alex’s shoulders, grabbing the sides of his face too roughly, but the man simply responds by crashing against his mouth, their lips bruising, Danny’s teeth nipping and biting. Alex pries his hands loose and pins them to the bed, overwhelming Danny completely, which is when he comes.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, legs dropping to the bed when Alex slips out of him. He rolls onto his stomach and moans again when Alex touches his rear. “Lay on top of me,” he instructs, so Alex does, but he can tell the man hesitates to drape his full weight. “Cover me,” he demands, grunting when Alex’s pelvis presses into his lower back, the barrel of his chest rolling along the ridges of his spine. “Pin me down.”

“Like this?” Alex whispers against the back of his neck, causing Danny’s body to jerk in response. Alex kisses the spot and Danny whimpers. The man grips his wrists, his powerful legs keeping Danny’s thighs fixed and spread. He releases Danny for a split second, but only to align his cock and push back inside.

The angle makes everything tighter, makes Alex feel twice as big, and Danny wails in approval. Alex knows his body well enough these days to understand what Danny needs, and he doesn’t hesitate to plunder deeply, his insistent hips pistoning forward. Danny grunts and whines, a wild animal with gnashing teeth, exuberant and free because he knows Alex won’t be frightened—that it is not possible to scare away Alex by being honest about his wants and needs. _So good_ , he wants to say, but it comes out as a wail right before Alex comes inside him, an incredibly intimate, pleasurable sensation of being claimed that Danny thinks ranks as his favorite moment ever—although, each time Alex does it is his new favorite life experience.

Naked and sweaty, they sprawl beside each other, skin so hot that Danny is amazed there isn’t steam billowing from their flesh. His hair is soaked with perspiration and Alex tenderly pushes it from his forehead so he can kiss his brow. “Do you think it’ll always be this way?” Danny asks, his voice frail, and he knows he’s being terribly naive but can’t help it. He keeps waiting for the spark between them to extinguish, but it’s been remarkably persistent all these years—perhaps because they very nearly lost each other.

“No,” Alex, the realist, replies, “One day, we’ll be old men.” Danny nods slowly, knowing that this is true—that the inextricable march of time allows no conscientious objectors. As Alex says, they’ll be old one day, all the passion and wildness drained from their systems. Before sadness can wash over him, Alex adds: “But I’ll still love you. I’ll always love you, Danny.”

He tells himself the jet lag is the reason he cries so quickly. It’s not because the people who were supposed to love him the most abandoned him—that it’s always been a secret fear Alex will leave him too after his looks have faded. Alex gathers him into his strong arms and strokes his back until Danny stops crying and drifts to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Their realtor’s named is Barbara and her hair is bleached white and cruelly wrangled into a beehive. She walks aggressively through the flats, heels clicking loudly on the parquet, and marble, and tiled floors of the respective spaces they examine the following afternoon. Because the flats are empty, her steps echo loudly, even when Danny and Alex are in different rooms, at the opposite end of the flat away from Barbara. It becomes something of an unnerving soundtrack to their journey.

Before flat-hunting began, Alex bought a stylish new suit and trench coat, so Barbara is absolutely smitten with him, calling him _Mr. Turner_ in response to all his questions. Danny thinks he looks perfectly respectable in his dark slacks and plum-colored sweater, but he really can’t compete with the old money vibes Alex puts out into the world. He weathers the onslaught of respect in his aloof way, which Danny thinks makes him even more attractive, and apparently Barbara agrees because she slavishly caters to his every demand: If Alex says a place is too drafty, she agrees; If he says another flat is too old, the next place they look at is ultra-modern; If he complains about the stairs, they switch to a space with a lift.

“What do you think?” Alex asks, standing beside him in front of the master bedroom window, voice pitched low in a confiding, secretive way that makes Danny feel giddy and special. It’s petty and juvenile, of course, but he can’t help it. Danny could say one word and send Barbara’s carefully laid plans to hell. He wrinkles his nose a bit, “I know you like the super modern stuff, but…”

“We’ll look at another place,” Alex says before he can finish the sentence.

Danny sighs. “We have different tastes.” How in the world are they going to find a place that pleases them both?

Alex picks up and kisses his hand, recommitting: “We’ll keep looking.”

Barbara huffs in annoyance when Danny declares he doesn’t like the flat. However, she consults her phone for a split second, and announces: “I think I have something you two will love.”

It’s a place located inside a strip of Chelsea’s white flats with their black doors and black wrought iron half-balconies. Inside, the flat reminds Danny very much of Alex’s old place. This concerns him for a split second until he notices Alex examining the various nooks and crannies with approval instead of anything resembling an unpleasant flashback. The kitchen is surprisingly large with a circular oak table located in the corner. In a flash, Danny imagines serving them breakfast, and he’s standing by the table when he sees it: the garden.

The glass doors open onto a small staircase that leads to a modest yard contained within brick walls, ivy stretching up the sides so that the brick is exposed in patches. “A garden!” Danny laughs, rushing outside to explore. There’s a small flower bed and the remnants of a vegetable garden. It’s beautiful. He’d never considered the possibility of a garden before, but now that he’s aware of the option, he can’t imagine a more appealing alternative. They can plant flowers. Flowers that will take root and grow bright and beautiful. Every morning, they’ll look outside and see them while drinking their coffee, the plants a barometer of their union’s vibrance. When he looks back to the house, Alex is stooped slightly as he speaks with Barbara, and he instinctively knows Alex is making an offer because he saw the way Danny’s face illuminated.

 

* * *

 

Danny is exhausted. The moving crew from the furniture shop has just left and they’ve let Pricilla out of her cage to explore her new home. The crew deposited only the basics: a bed for the master bedroom, some chairs, a couch for the parlor, and two armoires for their clothing in the bedroom. They also picked up the bare bones of cutlery: plates, glasses, some bowls, forks, spoons, and knives to get them through the week, plus two towels and bathing supplies for the washroom. He tries not to think about all the other things they’ll need to buy and transport so as to avoid a panic attack.

He walks into the kitchen and finds Alex looking out onto the garden. “We’ll need an upgraded security system,” Alex idly remarks, tugging gently on the iron handle of the door, the frame clumsily rattling as if to emphasize his point. A firmly placed shoulder could easily force it open. “Cameras…an alarm,” he adds, already itemizing their needs.

Danny walks up behind him and slides his arms around Alex’s waist, cheek pressing into the space between his shoulders, the heat from his body radiating through the designer dress shirt. “We’re going to be happy here,” he whispers, the words sounding like a prayer.

Alex grasps his fingers and moves Danny’s hand so it rests atop his heart. “Yes,” he agrees.

 

* * *

 

Danny is quick to imprint on their new home. Overnight, he has gifted the space a personality, complete with bric-a-brac he acquires from a plethora of locations: flea markets, shops, sometimes off the street (“It’s clean!” he’s insisted more than a few times when Alex expresses disapproval that he’s dragged home yet-another find). Alex is like a ghost for the first few days, more hesitant and wary than Danny, his behavior adhering to their normal dynamics. Danny plunges in while Alex waits on the shore, dipping his toes in to make sure there’s enough depth to accommodate.

They compromise. For every modern accessory Alex special orders from Harrods, Danny presents to their home something cozy or odd. He has quirky, eclectic tastes that Alex used to find repulsive, but now greets with almost pathetic gratitude. Danny pushing his boundaries means they’re still alive—and together—and that they are growing, and he gladly welcomes all the hideous prints and pieces of outsider art because they make Danny happy.

They’re so consumed by the mission of transforming the flat into their home that the call from the Attorney General’s office surprises him. Few people know their landline number, so the phone ringing is something of an event, and when Alex walks into the kitchen, Danny is staring at the black cordless with a mixture of suspicion and terror. Alex answers it. “Mr. Turner?” the woman on the other end asks. She is called Diane and she is the Solicitor General of the Crown. She wants to know when he’ll be free “for a chat,” which Alex knows is code for arranging his deposition against MI6.

He glances at Danny, who is pretending to fold dish towels, and is in reality eavesdropping on their conversation. “I’ll come in tomorrow,” he says and gives Diane his mobile number. He writes down the address she repeats to him on the notepad by the phone. Alex doesn’t know where the notepad and pen came from. Yet another homey detail that seemed to materialize from thin air, but which is in all likelihood a decision over which Danny agonized.

“Be mindful of how you get here. The press has caught wind of all this business and we want to avoid a spectacle,” she says before hanging up.

“That was the solicitor’s office,” Alex explains, returning the phone to its cradle. Danny says nothing, but shuts the towel drawer too aggressively and silently storms from the room, so Alex knows he’s upset. He waits a few moments and then follows him upstairs to the bedroom where he is seated at the foot of the bed, dark head bowed, fingers anxiously twitching on his lap. “Danny,” he says, sitting beside him. His heart painfully twists when he notices Danny’s face is wet.

“I’m just scared,” he whispers, sniffling and watching as Alex cradles his hand. “I’m afraid they’ll come after you. You know, in revenge.”

Danny, of course, doesn’t mention the possibility of MI6 hurting him too even though that is Alex’s great fear. After all, it was his fault the first time that Danny was dragged into the mess of his life. He feels selfish tempting fate a second time, but desperation has made him bold. Nothing has stopped the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fitful spells of sleep. Alex is certain that, if he is able to face down those who abused him, he’ll find closure.

He gently brushes Danny’s cheek, tilting his face upwards to get a better look at him: the wide, shimmering eyes, his red-tinged nose. Alex leans down to kiss him and tastes salt. “I won’t let them hurt us,” he promises.

“You won’t leave me again?” Danny asks against the crook of his neck, nuzzling and pressing meek kisses.

“Never,” Alex promises, itemizing all the reasons that must be true: increased media interest, the Crown’s involvement. Surely MI6 can’t disappear a man under such intense public scrutiny. This is what he tells himself, anyway, so it doesn’t feel like a lie. He can’t bear the thought of ever lying to Danny again.

 

* * *

 

He has the town car take a deliberately convoluted route to the Attorney General’s office, the whole time casting glances out the back window to make sure they’re not being followed. He also tips the driver obscenely well with the departing instruction that he is to keep this trip secret. That morning, the BBC had splayed Alex’s photo all over morning programming with the breathless news that the public hearing into MI6’s dissemination of false intelligence is to begin soon. Meaning: Alistair Turner is alive and well and living in London with his partner, Daniel Turner (nee: Holt), infamous for his gossip rag exploits. Alex had switched off the television before Danny walked into the parlor, but surely by now he’s turned on the television, or radio, and heard the news.

Alex stands before the cream building and stares up at the imposing facade with its teal-tinted windows (some open, some closed, due to the city’s unseasonably balmy weather). The entrance’s overhang is long and low, giving the impression of an invisible giant that is perched on its edge, mashing down the entire structure. He lifts his chin, straightens his posture, and breezes into the lobby with every ounce of confidence and entitlement bred into him. “Alistair Turner,” he says immediately to the receptionist.

She looks too young to be a receptionist—perhaps early twenties—with girlish blonde hair that hangs unkept around her pretty face, in the way younger women present themselves with a carefree, lackadaisical attitude, foregoing careful preening and coifing because they know they can get by on their natural looks. Everything about her is simple: a simple blouse, a simple silver charm hanging around her neck. Effortlessly charming. Alex is surprised that she’s been given such a prominent job at such a young age, but then he realizes the source of his vertigo is that he has gotten older.

“Oh, Mr. Turner, of course,” she says at once, “Let me call up to the Attorney General’s offices and someone will come right down to escort you.” She is already picking up the phone to dial, leaving Alex to simply nod and wait.

Diane Ramsey appears from the lift a minute later, introducing herself by full name and title (Deputy Attorney General), in the span it takes to walk from behind the whooshing doors and clasp Alex’s hand. She’s dressed in an expensive, smart ensemble: matching chocolate jacket and skirt with an underlying beige silk blouse. Alex reflexively thinks Frances would approve as Diane ushers him into the lift and scans her ID badge against the bay. The doors shut and they ascend to the tenth floor.

“We’ve taken some extra precautions to ensure you're guaranteed the utmost privacy during your deposition, Mr. Turner.”

It turns out this means the entire floor is empty, except for a large conference room where the Attorney General and a team of attorneys are waiting. They all stand when Alex and Diane enter the room. The first person to greet him is Andrew Hudson, the Attorney General, a man whose photo should be used under the definition of a bureaucrat in the dictionary: grey hair, lined face, a pair of small silver spectacles balanced on his nose. His suit is subpar. Alex shakes his hand firmly, sure to exert just a bit more energy than Hudson. Such things matter in this world. His is the only hand Alex shakes. He nods to the others and takes a seat at the head of the table without waiting for an invitation.

“Thank you for joining us,” Hudson says.

“Where do we begin?” Alex responds.

They say: at the beginning. First, they want to know what happened the night Alex vanished. Diane presses a red button on a digital audio recorder. “State your name, please.”

“Alex—” he pauses and picks up the glass of water off the table, taking a swig. “Alistair Turner.”

He unbuttons his jacket and leans back in the chair, sucking in a deep breath. He climbed into the truck voluntarily, he says, after MI6 made it perfectly clear that he would do so or risk something terrible happening to Danny. “Danny Holt,” one of the lawyers clarifies.

“Turner,” Alex corrects. “We were married in New York.”

The underlings bow their heads and make notes on their legal pads and tablets. Hudson asks why MI6 targeted him (even though he already knows the answer, he wants it for the official record) and Alex recites everything: about the invention, the perceived derailment of his time with Danny, the threats, and then the abduction itself. _They explicitly threatened Danny?_ one of them, Alex isn’t sure who, asks. He looks up from the table. “Yes,” he says, which leads to more furious scrawling and typing on their parts.

It’s more difficult to discuss the torture itself. How to properly articulate the mental anguish, the despair, the raw fear of it? _It was hot and cramped_ doesn’t do it justice. _I was in there for days_ doesn’t capture the endless nightmare of it. “I still have nightmares,” Alex says, but even that fails to properly articulate how the act permanently altered him.  _I’m never going to be the same_ sounds too dramatic, and the proud Englishman in him refuses to loosen his jaw to say the words.

It’s easier to explain what they did to Danny because Alex can be outraged on his behalf. “They psychologically tortured him,” he says, pleased that the underlings write down the phrase. He wants to hear the barristers say that in court directly to the heads of MI6.

“Is he willing to testify?” Hudson asks and Alex states plainly that, no, Danny is not to be involved. More furious documenting, so Alex takes a moment to straighten his tie and cuffs. Speaking about Danny causes his mind to briefly wander back to their new flat, to the kitchen where Danny is probably readying lunch for him. His head bowed, slender fingers chopping an onion. “But you’re still willing to testify,” Hudson asks, or rather states.

“Yes. I want everyone to know what they did.”

 

* * *

 

The same driver drops him off back at the flat and Alex tips him again. When he walks into the parlor, the room smells of garlic and onion, and Danny is standing by the stove in front of a large bubbling pot. “I thought stew would be nice,” he says, flashing a worried smile. He doesn’t want to ask Alex about the deposition but the fear is plain on his face.

“Everything went well,” Alex says, kissing his temple before sitting at the kitchen table. He shrugs out of his coat and suit jacket. By the time he loosens his tie, Danny has served the stew and set down two large bowls on the table. A medley of fragrances wafts upwards, haloing Alex’s face. “Thank you,” he says, scooping a spoonful of carrots, celery, and broth, and blowing on the liquid to cool it.

Danny is quiet as they eat and Alex is afraid that he’s angry when suddenly he declares: “I want to go to the hearing.” Alex looks at him in surprise and he quickly adds: “I won’t testify, but I want to go…to support you.”

Alex slowly sets down the spoon. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, but…I want to.” Danny flashes another smile. “I want to be there for you.”

“There will be press…” Alex says, trailing off. Danny won’t be able to simply be a passive audience member. The press will harangue him with questions. MI6 won’t cease its mind games. He knows his former employers are not through bullying and harassing them.

“I know about the press. I dealt with them when you were gone, remember?” Alex withers a bit at that, but Danny’s words aren’t malicious and his gaze is tender, “They can’t hurt me anymore. I have you. Everyone knows they lied about me.”

“They could still bring up those things. About your past.”

Danny shrugs and shakes his head. “Let them judge me. I don’t care what anyone thinks.” He reaches for Alex’s hand, their fingers twining.

 

* * *

 

Alex’s deposition lasts a week. Every day, he wakes, showers, and changes into a suit. He doesn’t run these days because there’s no time and he doesn’t feel safe taking his usual route over the Waterloo Bridge. His photo has now been circulating on the airwaves and in the newspapers for so long that he no longer feels protected by anonymity. Whenever in public, he never knows if strangers are looking at him in idle curiosity or if they recognize him from the news. Instead, he walks directly from the flat to the car to the Attorney General’s office and then reverses the course.

Danny stays busy by fixing up their flat and beginning his vegetable garden. Every day, Alex returns home to a freshly cooked meal and they eat in relative silence.

Most of the deposition is monotonous repetition, revisiting the same details over and over until Alex could recite the monologue in his sleep. The goal is to whittle away all the superfluous words and details so that Alex’s testimony is a stirring indictment of the corrupt nature of MI6. “The nail in the coffin,” as Hudson states it. They say he’s too emotional when talking about Danny, a charge that has never been leveled at Alex before. He doesn’t think he sounds emotional. His voice never wavers. He doesn’t cry. But apparently it’s a distraction.

“We can tell how much you love him. We don’t want the justices to think you’re testifying in an act of revenge for MI6 hurting your partner,” Diane says. “You can’t be angry.”

In order to resolve the MI6 issue, the Prime Minister has signed an order to convene a special session of the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom—part public hearing and part trial. Parliament members will later vote on the act to dissolve MI6 after the justices deliver their recommendations, and the hope is that there will be in the end a consensus on what should be done. Hudson states in no uncertain terms that Alex’s testimony will be essential to the trial, and that is why his deposition must be perfect.

“But I am angry,” he says.

“Be angry for yourself; not for Danny.”

Alex doesn’t know how to say that there isn’t a distinction anymore. The act of hurting Danny _is_ an act of violence against him, and vice-versa.

He rehearses the answers constantly: in the shower, when he’s looking in the mirror and straightening the windsor knot of his tie, any moment he is alone in a separate part of the flat away from Danny. They convert one of the spare bedrooms into a gym, and he repeats his answers in a hushed whisper as he presses the barbell away from his chest. _My name is Alistair Turner. I was a spy for the Secret Intelligence Service, commonly known as MI6. I specialized in advanced intelligence analysis. I am mildly autistic. I was a highly valued mathematician. I discovered an algorithm for predictive behavior that could have been used to thwart future terrorism attacks. I fell in love. I became distracted at work. MI6 held me for three days inside a trunk and tortured me. They nearly killed me._

At the end of the week, Andrew and Diane thank him for his cooperation and say they’ll be in touch. _How long_? he asks, and they say they don’t know. “Could be a few days. Could be a month. It depends on how game the Prime Minister is to have the hearing.”

The phone rings three days later. Danny is outside at the time, but hears the ring, and is looking to the glass door when Alex answers it. “Monday,” Diane says, the declaration a noose around Alex’s stomach.

“So soon,” he says.

“Mhm. Well, the Prime Minister was keen to move forward because another key plaintiff came forward. I think you know him. Works for the CIA: Michael Cooper?”

Alex’s grip tightens on the receiver. “Yes, I know him,” he says in a flat, reserved voice. He knows the man under many names. _The American_. The man he paid to serve as an escort for Danny, to whisk him out of the city during the apocalypse.

Diane chuckles. “He has quite the stories about MI6, let me tell you.”

 

* * *

 

They’re naked beneath the sheets Sunday morning, the day before Alex’s deposition, or rather the beginning of it. Alex says his testimony could be stretched out—who knows for how long? This could be their last moment of leisure for quite a while. But there is no urgency. It’s a beautifully serene moment: Alex’s fingertips cool and tender as they stroke Danny’s spine, cascading downwards to explore the small of his back. Danny presses against him, kissing the curve of his shoulder.

“Everyone is going to be there,” Alex murmurs. “Frances will be there.”

Frances, The American: all the people Danny assumed he would never see again. “Picture everyone in their underwear. I hear that’s good for nerves.” He offers a cheeky glance and nips Alex’s shoulder.

He smiles faintly. “They’ll try to trick me.”

“You’re too clever.”

“They’ll try to destroy my credibility.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. They should be the ones who are afraid.”

“They’ll attack you.” Danny is quiet, unsure of how to respond. It’s true. He is a weak point in Alex’s life, a major source of drama and disgrace. He’s done a lot of bad things and MI6 knows about all of them. “I don’t know what I’ll do if they attack you.”

“What will they say?” he says suddenly, his voice sharp, “That I’m a slut? That I slept with a lot of blokes? That some of them abused me? That I had unprotected sex when I was out of my mind on drugs? That I had rapid response testing done? You know everything. I’ve told you every bloody awful thing I’ve ever done.”

“I know,” he says softly, “But I don’t want your name dragged through the mud again.”

“Would you think differently of me?”

“Never,” Alex insists, his hold tightening, pinning Danny against him.

Despite, or perhaps because of the intensity of his grip, a thrill rushes through his body. “That’s all I care about. You’ll never think less of me. You’ll never leave me. They can’t hurt us, Alex.”

Alex is quiet for a long while in his silently contemplative way that perhaps mean he doesn’t fully agree, so Danny kisses his soft mouth, and again, until he exhales and lets Danny roll him onto his back.

 

* * *

 

The Supreme Court is located inside an ugly grey building a stone’s throw away from Westminster Bridge and the Thames, just south of where he and Alex met for the first time. Sometimes Danny thinks all his significant life events can be traced back to the Thames, like the water is actually coursing through a giant artery inside London’s heart, the entirety of which is located within his chest. The interior of the building is tiles and oak, a large curved table at the forefront of the room where the justices sit, four opulent chandeliers dangling from the ceiling and illuminating the space. The seating is minimal, capable of holding no more than one hundred people (including balcony seating), and most of the audience is comprised of press but there is a reserved seat for Danny up front.

The witnesses sit at a table facing the justices, so Danny’s view is of the back of Alex’s head—sometimes his profile—occasionally his face when the man glances back to him, but the barristers quickly tell him to stop doing that and to focus on his testimony. The attorneys, Ms. Ramsey and Mr. Hudson, take turns standing and languidly pacing the room in their traditional black robes and white wigs, posing the questions to Alex who answers into a skinny microphone so his voice is amplified and the press can hear him.

They begin with Alex’s background, calling him _Alistair_ , which is like nails on a chalkboard. Danny knows how much he hates his birth name.

“Alistair, you’re autistic?”

“Yes, I’ve been diagnosed as mildly autistic.”

“And what does that mean?”

“In my case, it means I have difficulty emoting and communicating my feelings, and with interpersonal relationships. I can come across as rude and uncaring about others’ emotions.”

Alex told him this would be the first day of testimony. These questions are a way of introducing Alex to the press and to the justices and explaining any future odd moments he displays during testimony. Danny knows this part is necessary and yet the questions annoy him. Why is Alex the one on the defense? He shouldn’t have to explain his behavior to anyone. His autism isn’t why they’re here. His odd quicks aren’t the reason MI6 tortured him.

Mr. Hudson, in particular, harps on Alex’s upbringing: the isolation, Frances’ strict parenting. Danny casts a look around the courtroom but doesn’t see the Turners’ matriarch anywhere in the audience. He wonders if she’s in the balcony, staring down at the justices like a predatory bird.

The attorneys read from Alex’s personnel file—all the complaints filed against him at MI6, a range of objections from “rude” to “impossible to work with.” Danny’s face warms in vicarious outrage. He wants to stand and shout: _Rude? Who bloody cares? Did he ever pretend to infect someone with HIV?_ Eventually, however, the legal team’s strategy reveals itself. Next, they explore Alex’s commendations, which far outweigh disciplinary actions. _Brilliant, groundbreaking, a visionary_. Danny’s spine straightens and he actually nods more than once. _Yes, that’s more like it._

“Were you recommended for the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross?” Mr. Hudson asks.

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For my contributions to national security.”

“Is that unusual for an agent who hasn’t seen combat?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you would have been the first non-combatant to receive it. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And why didn’t you ever end up receiving the medal?”

“I was abducted before I could complete the process.”

Mr. Hudson pauses for effect, rounding the room slowly to survey the crowd—specifically, press—and then the justices. “So MI6 went from recommending you for one of the highest decorations to blacklisting you.”

Alex never answers the question because MI6’s attorneys object. When Danny looks to Alex, his ears are crimson, and he wonders why the man never shared that bit of information. Knowing Alex, he was embarrassed by the all the pomp and circumstance. Or maybe he hates being reminded of how far he’s fallen.

They break for lunch. Mr. Hudson escorts Danny and Alex through a door that leads to a conference room where there is a spread of catered food waiting for them and the barristers. “You shouldn’t leave with the…” he gestures vaguely towards a window, “Outside.” There is a line of white media vans queued in front of the courthouse. “We’ll be providing meals.”

Two conference tables are situated perpendicularly with the lawyers grouped along the vertical branch, so he and Alex sit at the other table nearest the wall for a bit of privacy. “Why didn’t you tell me about the medal?” he asks once they each have a wrap and carrot sticks and celery on their paper plates.

Alex sullenly shrugs. “I never received it.”

“The medal? But they nominated you. That’s a huge accomplishment.”

“What does it matter?” Alex mumbles, “That’s all over now.”

Danny has never been an expert in any field. He is not an authority on anything unless the question is about which drugs to mix with alcohol or the best brands of lube. But Alex is a genius, previously a giant in his field. He can’t imagine what that must be like, but he imagines Alex is sad that his invention will never see the light of day. In all likelihood, it’s been destroyed. Alex will never again work for MI6. By the end of this, MI6 might not even exist anymore. Probably, Alex feels like he wasted his potential.

“You could do anything after this,” Danny whispers, leaning across the table, earnestly attempting to meet Alex’s gaze.

“No respectable institution will have me,” Alex mumbles. “The types of places I’d like to work for abhor a scandal. Hiring me means unwanted publicity.”

“You could teach,” he counters.

Alex angrily chomps at a celery stick. “I don’t want to discuss this right now.” He knows better than to press any further. They eat quietly for a few moments and then Danny bumps his foot under the table. When Alex looks up, he flashes a smile, and Danny sees the annoyance wash away from his face. “I’m sorry. I just find all of this very…stressful.”

He makes a soft sound of sympathy and reaches for Alex’s hand. Surprisingly, the man allows it, even though the attorneys can see them. Alex allowing a public display of affection means the situation must be dire. He hasn’t been able to run lately, his normal outlet for worry and stress. They’ve been having sex, but Danny can tell his mind is elsewhere. What they need is a normal night.

“We should go out.”

Alex exhales through his nose because the idea is so absurd. “Right.”

“I’m serious. Dinner. Dancing. No one will expect us to do it. We can sneak out the back door.”

Alex stares at him. “And what? Jump the garden wall?”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, shrugging. “Why not?”

Their half-eaten wraps rest forgotten on the plates. Alex’s brow furrows and he glances at the attorneys who are lost in their own conversations, most likely about the hearing. “You’re serious,” he says. Danny nods and the corner of his mouth ticks upwards. “We jump the wall. Then what?”

“We takes a back route to a main road and flag down a cab.”

“Someone could see us.”

Danny nods, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, I guess.”

“This is mad.”

Alex is smiling and Danny’s foot keeps nudging his ankle beneath the table.

 

* * *

 

Alex loses his nerve when they’re wearing a change of clothing and Danny’s hand is on the back door’s handle. “We shouldn’t,” he says suddenly, stretching to his full height when Danny rounds on him to stare, probably so he looks like an authority figure, “It’s too risky. Press could spot us. If my photo is in the newspapers, it could jeopardize the hearing.”

Danny smirks. “Who would recognize us?” They’re dressed in informal clubbing gear: Alex in a pair of faded jeans that Danny has never seen before and an old band t-shirt that hangs loosely from Danny’s frame, but which fits Alex like a glove, and his blond waves hidden beneath a skullcap. He looks mouthwatering, but nothing like Alex Turner. Skinny jeans and a plain white t-shirt are Danny’s chosen ensemble, a black hoodie zipped at the front, the hood hiding his trademark helmet of hair. They look like, in his opinion, two totally inconspicuous blokes. Apart from Alex’s inherent attractiveness, he doubts anyone would look twice at them.

“It’s too risky.” Alex shakes his head, backing away from the door—from Danny—to illustrate his point.

Danny shrugs, says, “Okay,” unceremoniously opens the back door, and darts down the steps. He laughs when he hears Alex swear beneath his breath, the jangle of keys and the sound of the door closing, followed by heavy footfalls on the steps. Alex is right behind him, but he doesn’t look when he climbs up the wall, the tips of his Chucks digging into the brick for purchase. Alex’s large hand braces against his rear, then foot, giving him a leg up. “Cheers,” he whispers, grinning like mad when he swings his leg over the wall and drops down on the other side.

He looks around to get his bearings. They’re in the neighbor’s yard. The house looks dark, and thankfully there is no dog in the yard. Danny squints and sees a gate on the other side of the yard—beyond it, another yard, and beyond that, through a wall of hedges, he sees headlights: _the road_. Alex lands with a thud behind him. “You’re mad,” he says immediately.

Danny hums in agreement and takes off again, darting across the yard, the rusted gate squeaking in objection when he yanks it open. Alex’s breath puffs in his ear, just behind him when they clear the second yard and bust through the bushes. A branch scrapes Danny’s cheek but does not faze him. When he looks back, Alex is removing leaves from his hat. “Bloody _mad_ ,” he grumbles.

He laughs and raises his arm, balanced preciously on the curb, nearly falling forward in eagerness to quickly flag down a cab. It’s a busy street, not the ideal place to get a driver to pull over, and Danny can feel the anxiousness radiating from Alex. The man rubs his arms and keeps glancing up and down the street, probably waiting for media to come charging around the corner. Finally, a black cab pulls over for them and they pile inside.

“Fire,” Danny instructs and the driver peels off without further instructions. Alex is still gripping the door handle like he’s thinking about opening it, tucking and rolling back to the safety of their flat. He looks at Danny curiously. “It’s a great club. Good music, loads of dancing with naked blokes.”

“Oh, Christ,” Alex groans. “What have you talked me into?”

He reaches over to stroke the back of Alex’s warm neck. “It’s just a bit of dancing.”

“I hate dancing,” he mumbles, sulking. When Danny points out he’s never tried at a club with other people, Alex still insists that he hates it.

“Well, you can watch me dance,” he offers, “You’ve always said you wished you could see me.” Alex’s silence is an answer in itself. He eases across the bench seat, pressing into the man’s flank. “If you don’t like it, we can leave,” he offers.

The tendons in Alex’s neck relax as he nods, still sulking, but for the moment placated. Danny can’t be sure—the lighting of the cab is dim—but he thinks he sees a glimmer of intrigue in Alex’s eyes as well. He’s never seen Danny in his natural element. The spy in him is curious.

 _Fire_ is located beneath a railway arch in Vauxhall, a sweltering industrial space with throbbing bass, cheesy disco balls, and half-naked men everywhere. When they walk in, Alex nearly does an immediate turn around right back out the door, but Danny catches his arm and shouts into his ear, “Let’s get a drink!” They make their way through the teeming crowd, Danny’s hands slick with the sweat of strangers as he gently forges a path through the men. Most of the club-goers are fit men built like Alex with a few twinks (built like Danny) scattered here and there. _Fire_ is infamous for its eye candy (most men who visit the club are gym addicts eager to show off their physiques) and while Danny personally finds gym culture dull, he does appreciate its results.

They’ve been standing at the bar for ten seconds when a blond twink staggers up to Alex and declares: “You’re hot. Wanna dance?”

Alex looks at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. “No,” he finally says.

The drunk young man blinks and says, “Fuck you” before staggering away.

Danny covers his mouth to keep from laughing and leans over the bar to shout his order at the bartender. The drinks arrive about a minute later, an orange-pinkish hue. Alex inspects the glass suspiciously. “What is this?” he asks as Danny clanks their glasses together.

“Cheers,” he sweetly responds and downs the concoction that is sixty percent vodka.

Alex follows suit and winces before dissolving into a coughing fit. “That is truly awful,” he sputters. Danny reclines against the bar top and watches the men dance, the DJ a hunched scarecrow of a shadow on the stage, beneath the lasers and flashing lights. Alex removes his skullcap and stuffs it into his back pocket, and Danny flips down his hood and unzips his hoodie when the heat becomes unbearable. He eventually slides out of the hoodie entirely and drapes it over a barstool. Alex watches a young couple dry hump on the dance floor. “This qualifies as dancing?”

His words are a bit slurred, understandable given the heroic amount of alcohol they’ve both just consumed. He already feels looser, the bass no longer an obnoxious thud at the back of his skull, but rather a full-body buzz that pleasantly vibrates his skeleton. “Not everyone can elevate it to an art form,” he smirks.

“Not like you,” Alex says, a challenging gleam in his eyes.

Which is really all the encouragement Danny needs. He bunches up the sleeves of his t-shirt so his biceps and shoulders are bare, the plunging neckline exposing his gleaming clavicle, his fingers pushing up the perspiration-dampened mane into an unruly wave, and Alex watches the whole process—until he’s standing on the dance floor. He turns to face the bar, to face Alex, and begins to dance. His head leads: a rhythmic nod, followed by his arms, legs, and finally hips that instinctively catch the beat. Danny’s eyes shut and he loses himself in the song, bodies occasionally bumping up against him, a cheeky pair of hands gripping his wrist, so he backs away until a cool breeze envelopes him and he is alone once more. He isn’t dancing for strangers. He’s dancing for Alex.

He spins and drops to the floor, leaping to his feet again, and someone whoops in approval. Danny never opens his eyes to see who made the noise. It doesn’t matter. His lashes fly away from cheekbones and he hops to see over the bobbing heads. Alex is still standing by the bar, watching him, his expression serious and focused. For a moment, he worries that Alex is angry. But then the man suddenly raises a glass—a newly ordered drink—a silent cheers of approval. He smirks and disappears into the crowd once more, shouldering and nudging to reclaim his original space where Alex can see him.

His body remembers how to move this way as if he never left the clubs, or London, or moved across the ocean and lived in a snowcapped cabin for years. Danny is older now, but his limbs move the same, his figure cutting the same silhouette across the dance floor.

A tall man steps in front of him and boldly grips his waist. Danny barely has time to react when Alex suddenly appears on the dance floor and roughly shoves the stranger backwards. “Don’t touch him,” he spits, menacing in a way that Danny has never seen before.

“We’re just dancing, mate,” the man shouts, shoulders squared and barrel chest puffed in the fashion of a man who would very much like to fight.

Danny grips Alex’s arm. They can’t risk a scene. “Let’s go!” he says, his voice drowned out by the music.

Alex is silent, gaze icy as he stares down the man, and for the first time Danny sees the side of him that would have made an intimidating asset for MI6. All these years, he’s known Alex the mathematician, or Alex the victim, but never Alex the fierce combatant. He looks taller, broader, more threatening than Danny’s ever witnessed.

“What’re you gonna do, huh?” the man growls, thumping his bare chest, a display so tribal and ridiculous that Danny would laugh if he wasn’t legitimately terrified that Alex is about to fight.

Suddenly, Alex points at him. “You need better manners.” And with that, he grips Danny’s hand and pulls him off the dance floor.

His shock gives way to giddiness, and by the time they stagger into the cool London air, he’s hysterically laughing, bent at the waist, barely noticing when Alex thrusts his hoodie into his hands. “I can’t believe you said that,” he cackles.

Alex smiles slowly, pulling on his hat. “He was being rude.”

“I thought you were going to lay him out.”

“I should have.” He glances back to the club doors, as if considering going back inside and finishing the job. Alex rubs at his jaw, missing the beard.

Danny misses it too sometimes. Especially when it would rub against his thighs. The alcohol is coursing through his system, warming every inch of flesh. Alex’s shirt is wet with perspiration, clinging to his chest and flat stomach. Unconsciously, Danny wets his lips. “Let’s go home,” he says, dragging Alex by the arm back to the main road where they flag down a cab.

Drunk, the walk back to their flat is somewhat more complicated, particularly the bit where they have to scale the wall. Danny nearly kicks Alex in the face and falls over the other side, a giggling, filthy mess, laying in the dirt by the time Alex picks him up and half-carries him up the stairs into the kitchen. Alex removes his hat and walks straight to the other end of the flat, looking through the front windows where a couple media vans remain parked overnight just in case Alex or Danny pop out to do a bit of shopping or fetch the morning paper.

“Nothing,” he remarks, voice filled with amazement.

“Told you,” Danny sings, darting upstairs and shrieking with laughter when Alex chases him. He’s never seen the man this lively, and while he knows alcohol plays a role, Danny likes to think that Alex is experiencing a bit of exuberance from breaking the rules and stealing back a fraction of his freedom. He can’t imagine being Alex’s age and having never dabbled in London’s gay culture. Yes, Danny has made loads of mistakes, but he’s lived. Alex has been a bystander for most of his life. “I…” he says, spinning to face Alex once they’re in the bedroom, “…am _very_ proud of you.”

“Are you?” Alex replies, voice low and sexy, a rumble in his chest as he pulls off the ruined t-shirt. “You looked beautiful dancing.”

And just like that, his sweet and sincere Alex has returned. Danny’s heart tightens. “You’re glad we went out?”

Alex crosses the room to stand before him. “Very glad,” he whispers, hands large and warm as they cup Danny’s face, and he leans down to kiss him.

Danny moans, fingers flying to the waistband of Alex’s jeans, dipping beneath to stroke the sharp bones of his hips and to pop the button from its slot. He falls heavily to the mattress, spine arched and arms thrown over his head as Alex pulls off the hoodie and then his shirt. He’s panting for breath, heart hammering as he lifts his hips and watches Alex drag the denim and briefs from his thighs. His cock is half-hard, a delayed reaction from the alcohol, but Alex corrects this when he swallows him to the root.

“Fuck!” Danny shouts, slapping his hand against the comforter.

Alex has gotten particularly good at this aspect of sex, learning with all the vigor of an eager-to-please student. Danny strokes his hair, silently counting from one to ten and then counting down ten to one, as he tries to manage the jolts of pleasure emitting from his groin every time Alex’s wet mouth plunges down onto his rigid cock. His clever tongue now knows how to move along the underside, fingers stroking in a skillful spiral born of vast experience wanking Danny.

Finally, he says: “If you want me to fuck you, you have to stop.”

Alex ascends, lips greedily popping as the head slides out.

He smirks, says, “On your back,” and immediately scrambles for the lube.

Alex’s jeans are already open (he must have stuck a hand in and stoked himself while he was sucking Danny), so he need only lift his hips and shimmy a bit to remove them, kicking them from his feet. The clothing lands in a heavy heap on the floor and Danny smiles to himself. It’s nice to see Alex like this: still flushed from the club, tipsy, forgetting to be fastidious about how he handles his clothing. He’s too busy alternating between hungrily eyeing Danny’s cock and the silver tube.

Thighs drop apart as Danny kneels between his knees and gives his heavy cock a few experimental strokes. Alex exhales, a muscular arm draped above his head. In moments like this, Danny has an out of body experience looking at him, still awed that Alex is his, and that Alex has chosen him in return. Danny knows that he’s right—that one day they will be old men quicker to read a good book while sipping tea than to run upstairs to rut—but for the time being, he can’t imagine ever looking at Alex and taking his beauty for granted.

Alex is quiet as always, watching Danny wet his fingers and then bracing his feet on the bed as he reaches under him. He inhales softly when the first finger breaches him, but says nothing. “Good?” he asks and Alex nods, so he adds a second finger, gently working him open. His free hand strokes Alex because the man is usually too frozen to do it himself, and indeed, Alex’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed as he concentrates on not coming immediately.

By the time he curls his fingers and draws a gasp from Alex, his cock bobs in the air as if asking for attention. “I’m gonna…” Danny begins, unable to finish, but Alex nods in understanding and stretches his thighs further apart. Danny braces atop him, leaning down to kiss Alex even though all he can do in return is moan and breathe into his mouth as he pushes inside. “You’re okay,” he babbles, sprawled atop him, stroking Alex’s brow and kissing his cheeks and lips.

Of course Alex is okay. Judging from the noises he’s making, he’s better than okay, and yet Danny still finds himself overwhelmed by the sensation of being clenched by his body, dangling off a precipice above a chasm of desperation. _Easy, easy_ , he reminds himself, moving slowly at first, allowing Alex to open to him, everything gradually loosening, their sweat-covered skin allowing him to buck and thrust more smoothly until the rhythm is perfect. That’s when Alex comes to life—suddenly gripping Danny so fiercely that it’s difficult to breathe—a raw sound tearing from his throat that breaks Danny’s heart a little bit. He wants to tell Alex that he’s doing so well allowing himself to feel things like this—that it will be all right because Danny will always be there to catch him.

But all he can do is move, chasing the thing that makes Alex come undone.

They rush into hot white light, his ears ringing on the release, collapsed in their mess and uncaring as his ear presses to Alex’s chest and he listens to the wild gallop of his heart. Something cradles the back of his head—Alex’s hands—stroking and cajoling him, so finally he moves, collapsing to the bed with a satisfied groan. He can barely move, so he senses more than sees Alex leave the bed and walk into the master bath. He’s fetching a warm washcloth to help them clean up, punctilious Alex once again in control. Danny smirks when the damp cloth touches his stomach, mopping up the mess. “Cheers,” he rasps in a voice hoarse from moaning.

The serenity of the moment is interrupted by their kitchen and master bedroom landlines ringing in synchronicity. Danny reaches for the cordless and answers. “Hello?” he says to silence. Having a landline number is a new phenomenon for him, having been born a child of the cellular age, but Alex insisted they should have one. He assumes it’s an erroneous caller, since they’ve given out the number to so few people. But just as he’s about to hang up, Danny hears it: someone is breathing on the other end. “Hello?” he asks again and now Alex is watching him with a furrowed brow.

He helplessly shrugs and hands him the phone. “Who is this?” Alex asks, his voice hardened in a way that makes Danny sit up, fear gripping him from the inside. An endless moment of silence follows before Alex finally hands back the phone. “They hung up,” he murmurs, gaze far off.

“I’m sure it was just a wrong number,” he says, laughing at their paranoia, but the sound is frail and unconvincing. He returns the phone to the cradle and lays down.

It probably really was a wrong number, but they’re both thinking the same thing: What if it wasn’t? What if MI6 has a van stationed outside right now to monitor them? They don’t need to make threats in order for the threats to be implicit. An enormously powerful intelligence agency doesn’t lose its power to bully and intimidate simply because it’s under Parliamentary review. There are still ways to hurt them even with all the media attention—even as Alex testifies against them.

He curls against Alex’s naked figure, lulled once more into comfort when a strong arm pulls him close. Danny tells himself that MI6 could not safely disappear either of them now that the public knows about the torture and the smear campaign. He simply ignores the fact that MI6 still has a universe of other ways to torment them.

The mattress jars and when Danny looks up Pricilla is cozying herself around Alex’s head, her favorite sleeping spot, tail curling neatly around his skull.

 

* * *

 

Alex’s credit cards aren’t working and the contacts, including his lawyers’ phone numbers, have vanished from his phone.

“It’s a glitch,” Danny lightly replies to the news, not for a moment believing his own reasoning.

Alex looks at him in exasperation over the kitchen island across which he’s spread his three credit cards and defunct phone. “It’s not a glitch. I don’t know how they did it. They must have passed a magnet by my wallet and wiped the cards and the phone at the same time.” He mumbles the last part to himself, as if trying to work out an equation. “Maybe when I walked through the metal detector at the courthouse. I had to put my wallet and phone in a plastic bucket. A police officer examined them. It could have happened then.”

Danny feels ill. That means they have agents working close to Alex. Near enough to touch him.

“None of this stopped you from testifying,” he whispers, sitting down heavy at the kitchen table.

“They play these mind games. They make you paranoid; make you question your own sanity. They want to make me look unreliable. They think I’ll retract my statements,” he says, rambling in a way Danny has never heard.

The change is already evident. Alex is jumpy and suspicious of everything. After his testimony today, he became convinced that a car was following them back from the courthouse, so he made their driver take a fake route and then drop them off ages away from the flat so they had to walk home through backyards. Danny knows no one was following them, but how to convince Alex? Especially when he has valid reasons to be so paranoid in the first place?

He stands slowly and rounds the island, gripping Alex by the shoulders and turning him away from the evidence. “You’re right. They’re trying to get into your head, so…” he says, cupping Alex’s face and gazing up at him, “Don’t let them.”

Danny sees the veil lift from Alex’s gaze, replaced by acute concentration. He nods, newly determined, as if waking from hypnosis. “Yes. I’m tired of letting them win.”

“They’re going to lose this time.”

Alex grips his hands, holding them in place on the sides of his face. “Yes, I’ll make sure of that.”

 

* * *

 

The phone calls continue. They always come late at night, waking them from their sleep. The person on the other end never speaks, but does audibly breathe so they know it is no accident. The number is blocked on the caller ID, so Alex tells his legal team about it and the lawyers exchange wary glances. “We’ll put some security on your home,” Mr. Hudson says, which does nothing to assuage Danny’s anxiety.

This is the first time he’s felt like smoking again, while standing in the courthouse lobby, waiting for the doors to open for another day of testimony. Alex is with his legal team debriefing for the day ahead, and Danny is chewing on his cuticles, fighting the urge to bother some of the reporters for a cigarette.

“Danny!” someone suddenly cries, and his heart rockets into his throat.

His mind deals a hand of horrible outcomes: it’s an assassin come to kill him, or a reporter with invasive questions.

But instead, when he looks up, he sees Sara and Pavel elbowing their way through the crowd. “Oh my God!” he wails, having no time to say anything else before they’re upon him, laughing and crying all at once, and he clings to them, not knowing if they or he are the ones shaking so badly. The questions are an onslaught: _Where have you been? We thought you were dead! We texted and texted and then your phone was out of service. Why didn’t you tell us you were leaving the city_? So fast and rapid that he can’t tell who is asking what.

Sara’s hair is longer and Pavel’s is shorter. He grips them each by a wrist and stares at them, unable to think of a suitable answer, and feeling like he is standing outside his body. Sara. Pavel. He thought he would never see them again. He gives them the shortest of versions in a hushed whisper, near the shut courtroom doors. Some reporters are still looking at him from just outside the entrance, but they seem to have largely lost interest in Danny reuniting with some friends. He tells them about fleeing during the public terror, the organized trip to New York, and discovering Alex is still alive.

“It’s all like a movie,” Sara replies, her eyes wide.

“Alex was a spy,” Pavel softly declares, redundantly because of course everyone knows that now, but they’ve never been able to properly debrief, and even though it’s been years since he discovered the truth, Danny feels good standing here, sharing this reality with his friends.

Danny can only nod and they’re quiet for a moment, absorbing everything. Sara suddenly smiles. “I’m engaged,” she giddily whispers.

He grins, his grip slipping from her wrist to her hand, squeezing the slender fingers where there is now a ring. “To Khalil?” When Danny had left London, they’d only just gotten serious as boyfriend and girlfriend.

She nods, smiling, her eyes shining. “You can come to the wedding now.”

His throat tightens and he smiles, nodding, not trusting himself to speak without bursting into tears. All this time, he’d been so consumed with survival and Alex that he’d forgotten he misses other things too: dancing, having friends, all the other little things aside from sustenance and partnership that make life worth living.

“And you and Alex can see my play,” Pavel says, “We just opened in the West End.”

“I used to read your reviews,” he whispers, as if recalling a dream. Sitting in Scottie’s office. Cutting out the newspaper reviews with a pair of scissors, “You’re a big shot director now,” he teases.

Pavel grins. “Remember when you would read my awful plays with me?”

“I always thought they were rather good—” Danny replies, pausing when Sara whispers _My love_ and gently brushes his cheek. Danny realizes she’s brushing away a tear and that’s he crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you what happened.”

“You couldn’t,” Pavel says, as Sara replies, “It doesn’t matter.”

“What happened to Scottie’s house?” he sniffs, wiping at his nose with a sleeve.

Sara sighs. “Sold. I think a family lives there now. I drive by sometimes.”

Danny considers this for a moment and nods. “Good. I’m glad someone bought it.” He briefly considers all of Scottie’s belongings and wonders who took them, then decides it doesn’t matter. Scottie would only be concerned with Danny’s safety and happiness. The greatest tribute to his departed friend is living his best life.

Sara and Pavel sit by him in the courthouse once they’re allowed to enter for the morning proceedings. Sara explains they’ve been trying all week, but the wait list for seats is long. “Everyone wants to see Alex testify,” she says.

“Really?” Danny answers, surprised, even though he of course knew the testimony would be a major event.

“It’s a huge story, mate,” Pavel replies, again giving Danny pause. He thinks back to his and Alex’s night of fun and realizes they were very, very lucky no one recognized them.

He’s so busy quietly digesting this reality that he completely misses the entrance of the legal teams and Alex, and by the time he looks up, the media is frantically typing and note-taking, and Alex is sitting on the leather-bound chair, straightening his tie, and casting a single glance backwards to Danny. He smiles encouragingly and Alex turns away to face the curved judges’ bench.

It takes Danny a moment to notice the empty chair between Alex and Mr. Hudson, and he still doesn’t quite understand what’s happening until the judges enter and are seated, and Judge Glasson says into her microphone: “Mr. Hudson: we see on the itinerary you intend to call another witness in addition to Mr. Turner today. Please state for the record who you’re calling.”

Mr. Hudson bends the microphone to his mouth. “The Crown calls Michael Cooper.”

A murmur of recognition washes across the audience and Judge Glasson calls: “Order! Order!” into the microphone.

The list of witnesses must have been given to the press, and surely by now they’ve done their homework and know Michael Cooper is a CIA agent. Or was an agent. Danny doesn’t know if one can still be a CIA agent if the entire world knows they’re one. Maybe testifying for the Crown means that Michael Cooper relinquishes his job. A door at the side of the courtroom opens and Cooper walks out. The room erupts in excited whispers and Danny is sure it’s his imagination, but it seems like Cooper looks directly at him. The man looks exactly as he remembered, except for a few more grey hairs along the temples. He smirks and waves at the press.

“Order,” one of the judges warns.

“My name is Michael Cooper. I was a CIA agent for twenty-three years,” he tells the court, standing to address the judges before they tell him he can be seated.

“And what was your involvement with MI6?” Judge Winograd asks.

“I was referred to as an asset, someone who was called in to make problems go away,” he says.

Alex is facing the judges, but Danny can tell he’s peripherally watching Cooper. The two men haven’t seen each other in years. Danny wonders if they ever met face-to-face at all. Maybe all communications were conducted over the telephone and via email.

Cooper explains that he was instructed to warn first Alex and then Danny to butt out of MI6’s business, though he insists he had nothing to do with the abduction and torture of Alex. “I don’t get my hands dirty in that way. I prefer other methods.” His hands move under the table and Danny sees something glint between his fingers—gold foil—the wrapping of a sweet. He pops it into his mouth, the cheek bulging so he can still answer questions. Oddly, no one comments on this.

“And how did you come to meet Mr. Turner?” Judge Winograd inquires.

Cooper pauses and clears his throat, fingers fumbling on the mic as he adjusts it, the sweet clicking against his teeth before he responds: “I knew of him because of my work for MI6. I’d heard stories about him: that he’s brilliant, that he was working on something big with potentially hairy political ramifications and I should be on stand-by in case my services were needed to deal with unforeseen complications.”

Winograd asks: “Such as?”

“If press caught wind of Mr. Turner’s project—if outsiders knew about what was going on. But then I suddenly stopped hearing from MI6. They stopped sending me orders, and I didn’t hear anything else until Mr. Turner contacted me saying that he’d been relocated to the states and wished for me to contact Mr. Holt, which I attempted to do soon thereafter. However, I couldn’t explicitly tell Mr. Holt what was happening due to concern that we were being monitored by other agencies. Mr. Holt didn’t contact me until right after the exodus.”

“After the false bomb report,” Winograd prompts and Cooper answers affirmatively.

“Tell us about what MI6 hired you to do, Mr. Cooper, before you learned of Mr. Turner,” Judge Michaels and his bushy white mustache command.

Here the man pauses again, and Danny is beginning to understand it might be an idiosyncrasy. Or perhaps he’s being cautious, thinking three chess moves ahead, picking his words like he’s searching for the juiciest apples dangling from a tree. “I would describe the bulk of my job as psychological manipulation. I would play mind games in order to make people question their sanity. And I would do this until they relented to MI6 or the CIA’s demands.”

Strong words. Danny hears some of the journalists hum behind him, having clearly seized upon the meaty soundbite. A former CIA agent admitting that he was in the business of psychological torture, and on behalf of MI6.

“Were you involved in the other subterfuge?” Judge Silva asks, “Planting the information about Mr. Holt in the newspapers, for example?”

Cooper chuckles into the mic. “No, that was too dirty even for me,” he quips, and the press titters appreciatively. Danny feels an irrational spike of envy. Cooper is in total control of the narrative, and he’s shaping events into a favorable outcome for himself whereas Danny has to sit quietly and listen to other people talk about him. He wants to stand and shout: _They tried to destroy me. They tried to obliterate my life_ , but knows he forfeited the right to do so when he decided not to testify.

Voluntary bystanders can’t complain about not getting any action in the game. _You can’t have it both ways_ , he tells himself.

The rest of Cooper testimony is equally masterful. He portrays MI6 in the worst possible light while presenting himself as a charming, skilled opportunist, who may be mildly flawed morally speaking, but is too shrewd and lovable for anyone to hold any of his actions against him. Not even the defense can besmirch him during cross examination. He never hit, cut, shot, or scarred anyone. What Michael Cooper does leaves no marks, and for some reason everyone seems to agree that makes his crimes less severe. Danny doesn’t buy the logic, but a favorable view of Cooper is beneficial for Alex, so he’s willing to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

Mr. Hudson and the other barristers seem thrilled by the afternoon’s proceedings. When Alex and Danny reunite in the conference room for lunch, Mr. Hudson laughs and claps his hands together. “We have them on the ropes!” he declares, explaining that the public is now thoroughly against MI6 and Alex and Cooper's testimonies have all but ensured the agency will be dissolved.

Alex smiles at the news and Danny can’t stop looking at him because it’s been so long since he looked genuinely happy. He understands Alex’s glowing disposition—how it must feel cathartic to confront one’s enemies and defeat them.

His gaze must darken because Alex suddenly sobers upon seeing his glum expression: “Everything okay?” he quietly asks, his hand large and warm on Danny’s back.

He manages to smile and nod. He’s fine. He’s always fine. Alex should know that by now.

 

* * *

 

Sara and Pavel come over for dinner, but before they all sit down for a meal, Danny gives them the tour of the flat.

“It’s like a house!” Sara coos when they’re climbing the stairs.

“You have a gym!” Pavel exclaims a moment later when they walk down the upstairs hallway. His excitement over the gym is upstaged a moment later when he sees Pricilla and immediately falls to his knees to pet her and proclaim she’s the most beautiful cat he’s ever seen in his life. Pricilla accepts the lavish praise from her newest subject.

He understands their enthusiasm. Danny’s whole life is a remarkable upgrade from his youthful days of poverty and squalor, including the fact that this time around Alex can actually join them for dinner. When the lasagna and salad are positioned on the kitchen table, Alex stands to formally toast them, and Danny smiles to himself when Sara and Pavel awkwardly raise their wine glasses during his proclamation.

“I want to apologize for my behavior when I first met you. Things were…” he trails off, looking to Danny, who offers a supportive smile, “Well, anyway.” Alex self-consciously smiles and Sara and Pavel exchange an amused look. “I was rude and aloof, and I never want to treat you that way because you’re the most important people in Danny’s life, which means you’re the most important people in my life.”

“We understand,” Sara says once Alex is seated again, “Life can be mad sometimes.”

“Yes, indeed,” Alex agrees as Danny spoons some lasagna onto his plate.

Sara smells like coconut and vanilla as she hugs him on the front stoop after dinner. “You’re beautiful. Your life is beautiful.” He lost track of how much wine she drank at dinner, but her gaze is so moist and sincere that Danny knows she means the words in her heart. “I’m so happy for you, my love.”

Danny kisses both her cheeks and looks meaningfully at Pavel. “Don’t worry, I’m driving,” he snickers, wincing exaggeratedly when Sara socks him in the arm.

“Next time, you and Alex come over for dinner with me and Khalil,” she says, taking Pavel’s arm as he assists her down the stairs.

“What am I? Chopped liver?” he pouts.

“Shut up. You’ll be there too, obviously.”

Danny smiles to himself as he watches them descend the steps, bickering, just like the old days. He watches them all the way down the sidewalk until they’re standing by Pavel’s car. They look back to him and wave and he raises his hand before stepping inside.

Alex is tidying up in the kitchen, his dress shirt rolled to the elbows, and Danny stands in the doorway for a moment to watch him. When the last plate is in the sink, Alex looks up and sees him, lips curving, his gaze soft. “Did you have a good time?” he asks, superficially calm, and Danny knows he’s anxious. Socializing never comes naturally for Alex, but he’s trying because he knows it’s important to Danny. Even in the middle of the trial of the century, Alex is thinking of him.

He crosses the kitchen and embraces him, arms winding around his neck. “You were wonderful,” he coos, kissing him. Pricilla saunters past, rubbing against their legs, and Danny parts from Alex to gaze down at her. “Time for dinner?” he asks, and she mews affirmatively.

 

* * *

 

Danny is in the loo brushing his teeth when Pavel rings his cell. He stoops towards the sink to spit out the paste and answer. “Heya, mate. You get home all right?” There’s a lengthy pause, during which Danny grabs a hand towel and wipes his mouth. “Pavel?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” he finally replies, “I dropped off Sara. I’m home. Everything’s fine…” There is something unnatural about his voice. “It was just…odd.”

“What was?”

Now Alex appears in the master bath doorway, clad in pajama bottoms, hair mussed from reading in bed. His face is a mask of concern because he hears the tenseness in Danny’s voice. His brow is furrowed in silent inquiry and Danny raises his index finger.

“I think someone followed us.”

Danny rubs his face, quiet for a moment. “What do you mean someone followed you?” he repeats, for Alex’s benefit.

Alarm registers in Alex’s gaze. He is suddenly standing at his full height, intensely focused on Danny and the conversation.

“There was a black car. It was behind us for such a long time that I got a bit suspicious, and I thought, well, with the trial and what not, maybe I should be cautious. So I took the back roads to Sara’s place, made loads of turns, and they kept following us.”

“Did you get the plates?”

Pavel sighs. “No, mate. I didn’t think to. I was scared out of my mind, to be honest.”

Danny tells him it’s okay, that it will be all right, and asks if anyone is stationed outside his house right now. A terrifying moment of silence as Pavel walks to the front and looks through the blinds. But finally he responds: no, no one is there. Alex has walked back into the bedroom and Danny hears that he’s on the phone, speaking in a lower register reserved for disseminating orders. Most likely to the barristers or the police. A request for additional security on Sara and Pavel’s homes.

A familiar jolt of guilt. He remembers the harassment Sara and Pavel experienced simply for the crime of knowing him before the exodus.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice wavering.

“Danny, mate. Don’t do that, okay? It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not. I’m fine. I’m right as fucking rain,” Pavel jokes, laughing.

“I just wanted to have you over for dinner.”

“It was a lovely night. We were saying so in the car. This is nothing. To hell with these bastards.”

He sits on the closed toilet after they’ve hung up, elbows braced on knees, head hanging. Alex walks in and crouches in front of him. “When will this be over?” he asks, feeling small and pathetic.

“When they go to prison. When the agency is dismantled,” Alex logically responds.

That is always the answer, and the barristers seem confident it will happen soon, but Danny knows these people are slippery and always think ahead of their enemies.

 

* * *

 

The next morning is a brief reprieve from madness, a temporary halo of light comprised of Alex sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his tea and reading the newspaper. Danny cooks eggs and bacon and sits beside his husband in blissful, relaxed silence while they eat. Occasionally Alex likes to hold his hand while he navigates the tea cup and turns the pages with his free hand. He’s also done this when jotting down math equations that Danny doesn’t understand. _Doesn’t it distract you?_ he once asked, and Alex replied: _No. It helps. You somehow anchor and drive me at the same time._ He doesn’t question these small signs anymore because each and every one is a gift from Alex, a man who has had to overcome enormous shame and anxiety to seek out affection.

Their serenity is a mirage shattered the moment the day’s hearing begins.

Mr. Hudson tells them that some of the heads of MI6 will be testifying today, and Alex blurts: “Who?” so angrily that Mr. Hudson’s bushy white brows arch in surprise. It’s probably the first time he’s ever heard Alex speak so sharply.

“Annette Khan and Thomas Hunt.”

The muscles in Alex’s jaw twitch. “They’ll lie. The both of them. They were my supervisors during the project.” Alex glances at him, a flash of guilt, “They were the first ones to find out about Danny.”

“We know. We saw the files.” Mr. Hudson claps a friendly hand on Alex’s shoulder, but the man tenses anyway. Alex hates when strangers touch him. Mr. Hudson must sense this because his hand quickly falls away. “Don’t worry. We’re prepared for them.”

Danny sits in the first row, alone this time without the company of Sara and Pavel. They’d rung earlier to explain their schedules didn’t allow for them to watch today’s proceedings, and that is probably true, but Danny wouldn’t blame them even if it was a lie. Being followed home by MI6 is no small thing, and he would understand if they felt the need to lay low for a while.

Alex and Danny share their solitary glance when the man first walks in and sits down at the table, surrounded by the team of barristers.

MI6’s legal defense stands and declares the witnesses for the first half of the day: Annette Khan and Thomas Hunt. A wave of murmuring shoots up from the journalists and a judge calls for order. Danny glances around, watching the journalists furiously typing on their tablets and scribbling in their notepads. The Queen’s barristers disseminate a list of witnesses for the day, so news of Khan and Hunt’s arrival isn’t surprising, but Danny assumes the tittering must be caused by excitement.

After all, it’s not every day that journalists get to see the veil of secrecy peeled back to reveal the people pulling all the levers.

Danny’s response is more restrained. His shoulders tense, spine straightens, and fingertips dig into the knobs of kneecaps as he watches the two MI6 heads enter the courtroom. These are the people who signed off on Alex’s torture and disappearance; the same people who unleashed MI6 on Danny—who thought it was wise and expedient to pretend to infect him with HIV. He stares at them, but Hunt keeps his eyes glued on the judges whereas Khan’s gaze roams the audience but seems to pass right over Danny. Like he doesn’t exist.

Khan is dressed in a smart charcoal dress suit, her hair straight and black, dusting her shoulder blades. Hunt looks slightly frazzled: great big bags under his eyes, wisps of hair jutting out at his temples, the rest of his head a shining bald dome. He is wearing a paisley tie. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder and wait for the excited murmurs to die down.

The questioning begins with routine inquiries into Khan and Hunt’s roles at MI6: they were supervisors, specifically charged with the overseeing of agents. Khan and Hunt’s most valuable asset was Alex and his invention. “We would check in with him twice a week to monitor his progress,” Khan says in the watered down accent of a second-generation child of Pakistani immigrant parents. Danny thinks her voice is musical, and he is immediately disappointed that she doesn’t sound menacing—that there are no horns jutting from her head.

The judges begin to ask a banal series of questions about these meetings and their proceedings and Danny wants to shout at them to get to the heart of the matter. He can feel the momentum slipping from their side. Khan and Hunt are too normal—too relatable in their bureaucratic skin. They are not monsters. Danny doesn’t know a lot about law and the media, but he knows people have short attention spans, and if the Crown doesn’t remind the audience about the horrible crimes Khan and Hunt oversaw, everyone will forget.

 _You could remind them_ , a voice in his head reminds.

He could have, but he decided not to testify. Even after Alex asked him multiple times. Because he’s a coward.

“And when did Daniel Holt first appear on your radar?” Judge Glasson asks.

Khan fields the question. “December. Monitoring of agents was standard procedure at MI6 due to security concerns. Our surveillance team reported the presence of an unknown male entering the agent’s residence. We were concerned for the asset’s safety so we looked into it and realized Agent Turner had begun a relationship with Mr. Holt. The relationships of our agents, as you can imagine, are also of concern to MI6. We needed to be sure Mr. Holt was a legitimate citizen and not a spy himself sent to compromise Agent Turner.”

Danny snorts. _Safety_. As if they were worried about anything but their own skin.

Khan takes a deep breath. “When Mr. Holt’s criminal record was brought to our attention: theft, drug possession…” The blood drains from Danny’s face. _Theft?_ He casts an impotent look around the room and watches journalists writing down her words—parroting the lie. _You mean shoplifting when I was a lost teenager? Drug possession? I was holding for a boyfriend twice my age._ “We became very concerned that Agent Turner was in a dangerous situation. Enemy spies know how to psychologically manipulate their targets, and we knew because of Agent Turner’s record that he was especially vulnerable to coercion.”

“Why not pull him into a meeting?” MI6’s barrister inquires.

“We tried that. Multiple times. He insisted Mr. Holt was only a friend. Eventually, we knew we had to enhance our interrogation efforts.”

 _By locking him in a trunk for days._ Danny stares at the bed of press, waiting for someone—anyone—to acknowledge that what Khan is saying is absurd. But no one is laughing. No one smiles. They simply write and write and write.

Mr. Hudson stands for cross examination. “Was the attic interrogation unusual?”

Danny’s chest tightens at the euphemistic phrasing. _Call it what it bloody was: torture._

“Highly, but we were coping with the circumstances dealt to us. We were concerned Agent Turner had passed the intelligence to Mr. Holt, and we needed to understand the situation as swiftly as possible, so we set up the interrogation room in Agent Turner’s home. We performed a lie detector test on him and he failed. Regardless, we arranged for him to be relocated to the states because we believed he could still be a valuable asset.”

“And what of…” Here the barrister squints at a file, “Mr. Miller?”

Danny almost reflexively stands at the mention of Scottie, and Alex breaks one of the cardinal rules by turning slightly to glance at him. His eyes are wet with sympathy, his complexion pale.

Khan doesn’t hesitate when she lies: “We were all deeply saddened to hear of Mr. Miller’s passing.”

He can’t stand it any longer. He can’t be in the courthouse one more second. Danny staggers to his feet and walks out, knowing that even though his chin is bowed and his gaze is fixed to the floor, that people are looking at him. This turns out to be a terrible idea. As soon as the doors shut behind him, a cluster of reporters standing in the foyer (overspill from the courtroom) spot him. “Mr. Holt!” they cry, chasing him down the hall as Danny quickly walks away from them, “Mr. Holt! How do you think Mr. Turner’s testimony is going?”

A petty part of him wants to point out that his name is Turner now, but instead he makes a sharp right, then a sharp left and jogs down some steps. Courtroom security must have snagged the reporters because he hears some raised voices that fade further and further away until he explodes out a door on the side of the building. A patch of grass juts out from the concrete pavement where a woman is standing and smoking a cigarette.

He doesn’t recognize Frances until she turns at the noise of the door’s clammer and declares: “Daniel.”

“Fuck,” he laughs, angry and overwhelmed because _of course_ he ran into her. He’s cursed. He presses his back to the building and rests his head against the cool facade.

She frowns while considering him. “Have they stopped for lunch?”

“No, I…I couldn’t be in there anymore. They’re _lying_. It’s all lies,” he rambles, eyes pinched shut. It occurs to him that he’s hovering dangerously close to a panic attack.

“Yes, well..” Frances shrugs and considers her cigarette, arms gracefully crossed, “That’s what they do.”

Danny focuses on slowing his breathing and gradually opens his eyes, spots fitfully bursting in his gaze as he looks over to her. Frances. He didn’t think he’d ever see her again. She looks calm, unencumbered by the fact that it was she who spread the false rumors of Islamic agents having a nuclear weapon. All so her son had a chance at happiness. He, Alex, and Frances are probably the only people in the world who know this.

“Are you going to testify?”

“No, the Queen’s barristers think I could compromise the case with the…controversial aspects of my past. But I wish I could,” Frances replies, “I very much would like to play a role in the agency’s demise.”

Danny understands the feeling completely, which concerns him, as it does anytime he and Frances end up on the same page. He never wants to be like Frances because Alex hates her.

“Are you going to speak with him?” he softly asks.

“No,” Frances replies, still watching the glowing tip of her cigarette, “I will honor his wishes and stay out of his life. But I wished to see the trial. This part is for me. I want to see these… _people_ suffer.” She looks up, watching him with brutal intensity. “I’ve heard you’re not testifying.” He can’t speak. He can only shake his head. “May I ask why not?”

“I’m tired,” is all he can say, and he isn’t surprised when that fails to impress a tireless woman like Frances, so he adds: “I’ve been put through so much. If I testify, all of that stuff will come up again.”

“So you’ve decided to quit when it matters the most,” Frances replies, so breathtakingly frigid that Danny is rendered speechless. Always, when sharing his traumatic tale, people treated him like a living saint—blameless—a constant recipient of sympathy and well-wishes. No one in their right mind could ever blame Danny for not wanting to testify. Of course, Frances is not most people. She almost looks amused considering him, “The beast is wounded, stumbling through the thicket, but you won’t shoot it. It’s almost as if you enjoy being a martyr.”

“ _Fuck_ you, Frances,” he snarls.

“From one friendless soul, who toiled for years in miserable isolation, to another: If you are given a shot, take it.” She crushes the cigarette beneath a cream pump. “No one will tell you this because they’re awed by your circumstances, but those same circumstances pale in comparison to my own, so I share this with years of hard-won wisdom on my side: Daniel, you will regret not testifying—”

“You can stop right now. I’m not going to.”

“You _will_ regret it. One day. Perhaps you will be an elderly man, living alone after Alistair has passed, but it will happen. You will live with this quiet, raging grief forever.”

Panic makes him petty. He rounds on her, growling: “You don’t know me, and you don’t know Alex. You didn’t even know his real name because you never listened to him.”

“And are you listening to him now?” Danny shrinks backwards, remembering the look on Alex’s face when he refused to testify. Deep sadness; barely concealed disappointment. Of course, Frances notices this tell and shakes her head, “Do not become complacent from fear. Do not become a spectator to your own life, Daniel.”

“ _Stay_ away from us,” he snarls, groping blindly for the door’s handle until he feels it and yanks. It’s locked, so he stalks away from her to round the corner and approach the main entrance.

 

* * *

 

Alex assumes he’s upset from the MI6 executives’ testimonies. “Are you all right?” is the first thing he asks upon seeing him in the conference room. He noticed Danny’s departure from the courtroom immediately. The inquiry reminds him of their first conversation and he smiles slightly. “I’m fine,” he lies. _Always lying_ , Frances’ voice mocks inside his head.

The legal team is less glowingly optimistic today. They confer in an earnest, tightly coiled circle at the opposite end of the room. Alex tells him the rest of the testimony went equally well for the defense. MI6’s leaders presented themselves as logical, aggressively efficient bureaucrats who became concerned about the dangerously unpredictable behavior of a mentally disturbed agent. “They presented complaints against me,” Alex says, nostrils flared, “Anytime someone found me odd and filed a report.”

Danny reaches for his hand. “It’s a desperate move.”

Alex looks unconvinced, “But it’s working.”

“Why does it matter? The whole reason they’re in court is for fear-mongering the public over the nuclear threat.”

“Hudson says it’s a strategy of misdirection. They’re planting seeds of competency to show MI6’s primary concern has always been safety and order, so by extension, even though the intelligence was false, their concern for public safety was the motivation behind the London exodus.”

His mouth gapes. Danny can’t believe what he’s hearing, “But…people died,” he sputters, “They were wrong and people died.”

Alex shrugs helplessly. “When has that ever mattered, Danny? Governments start wars over faulty intelligence all the time. People die. No officials go to prison.”

For the first time, it occurs to Danny that they are going to lose. He numbly watches the barristers converse, accepting a plastic cup of water from Alex when it’s supplied, but he doesn’t move again until the meeting is over and they’re free to leave, and he doesn’t speak until they’re home.

Alex asks him if he’s feeling well, going so far as to touch his forehead and cheek, checking for fever. Danny insists he’s fine, but he can’t bear to be around Alex, so he draws a hot bath and soaks for over an hour, until Alex gives up and dresses for bed. Only then does he slowly climb from the water and drain the tub, toweling off and then standing nude in the loo, looking at his reflection. He’s no longer skeletal following years of good care by Alex in their cabin. _He takes care of you because he loves you. He’d do anything for you._

Danny walks into the bedroom, still nude, which is probably the motivating factor behind Alex quickly setting aside his book and looking at him. His back is propped against a stack of pillows, the hunger and desperation quick to flood his gaze. Foreplay isn’t really a necessity for Alex because he had spent so long denying his urges. It’s up to Danny to slow things down and remind him of life’s every tiny delicacy. But sex isn’t on his mind at all (well, not at the _very front_ of his mind, anyway). He climbs beneath the sheet and curls up against Alex.

“I’m going to testify.”

Alex stares at him in amazement. “Danny…” he begins, tone cautious in anticipation of talking him out of his decision. Now that they’re receiving strange phone calls and their friends are being stalked, Alex no longer feels wildly confident about the trial’s outcome.

“I want to,” he whispers, touching Alex’s lips to quiet him. Alex’s gaze is tender as he watches. “They hurt us and I want everyone to know. I don’t want to look back on this one day and be disappointed in myself. I thought by opting out I could spare myself misery because I would be not-choosing, but even that is a choice. I’m choosing to do nothing, so I have no right to feel angry when I hear some of the testimonies.”

“You have the right not to testify. It doesn’t make you a coward.”

Danny smiles slowly, now that they find themselves arguing opposite points from their positions back when they were living in the cabin. “I don’t care what other people think of me. I only care what you think, and how I feel about myself. I need to do it, Alex.”

Alex gravely considers him for a moment. “There may be consequences.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Reassurance would be a lie; acknowledgement too bleak, so Danny explores safe terrain. He surges up and kisses Alex, moaning softly in approval when Alex returns in the embrace, and in a way that he knows will result in the man rolling on top of him, which Alex does a moment later, gently cradling Danny’s head in the process. He wriggles beneath his solid frame, thighs spreading when suddenly Alex pulls back from the embrace.

Danny looks up at him in confusion and Alex offers an amused look, as if to say: _I know what you’re up to_. Danny has the decency to look slightly chastened.

“Danny…” he begins, with renewed purpose. “There will be consequences.”

“I know,” he replies, lifting his hips before deflating when Alex offers another scolding look. “I know,” he repeats, “But there are always consequences. There are consequences right now when I have to sit there and listen to them lie about us. It’s worse if I stay silent.”

Alex’s long fingers loop his wrists and Danny sighs happily as he slides them upwards until they’re pinned above his head. “I’m going to protect you,” Alex promises.

It’s difficult not to think of Scottie. His body hanging from a tree. No one can protect anyone.

“I know,” he says before Alex kisses him again.

 

* * *

 

The phone rings again at breakfast. Alex answers it, listens for a moment, and hangs up, and Danny doesn’t ask him who it was because he already knows. Their harassers, ensuring they haven’t forgotten their place. Other odd things have been happening lately. At night, someone threw a brick at their front door. It didn’t hit the window, thankfully, but loudly thudded, scaring them and sending Pricilla scrambling under the couch. Alex reported this to the police and the barristers, and their commitment was the same: more security.

What neither of them says aloud is that they’re afraid some of the police are working for MI6 and may have thrown the brick. What’s to stop them from vanishing on overnight detail and allowing MI6’s goons from entering their home?

Another oddity: their security system periodically stops working, and Alex is convinced MI6 is using some kind of signal-jamming device. The alarm sometimes goes off when nothing is happening, or fails to go off when someone enters without entering the code, as Danny had to one afternoon when his arms were full with groceries.

He stands and fetches the tea pot, refilling Alex’s cup with steaming water, his free hand briefly ascending to massage the back of his neck. Alex looks at him and he smiles before returning to the stove.

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

He collects his phone and keys from the glass bowl in the center of the table. “I’m sure,” he repeats, solely for Alex’s benefit. He smiles and tries to emit confidence that he does not feel in his bones.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the courthouse, the conference room is thick with tension. As soon as they enter, the legal team stops speaking and looks at them, as though they were just discussing Danny and Alex. “What happened?” Alex asks in his usual straight-forward manner.

“The defense announced a surprise witness. This is highly irregular,” Mr. Hudson begins, and Danny misses a bit of what he says next because his ears are ringing. The only person he can think of is Frances, but she would be testifying against MI6. Who in the world are they calling? “…wanted you to be prepared,” Mr. Hudson is saying by the time Danny can hear again.

The barrister finishes his prepared remarks and then looks expectantly at them. Danny is the first to speak: “I want to testify.”

His voice carries, the declaration successfully hushing the entire room. When Danny looks over Mr. Hudson’s shoulder, he sees the wide eyes of the legal team staring back at him.

Mr. Hudson sputters for a moment. “We asked before and you said you didn’t wish to participate in the case.”

“He changed his mind,” Alex flatly answers.

“I need you to be absolutely sure.” Mr. Hudson’s gaze is fierce in the way that he looks during messy parts of the hearing, but Danny has never been at the receiving end of it. He’s momentarily paralyzed, understanding the magnitude of what he’s volunteering.

“I’m sure,” he says, barely getting the words out before Mr. Hudson rounds on the lawyers and declares: “We’re rethinking today’s schedule. Hannah, I need you to write up a new schedule and hand it out to the press. Brian, tell the barristers and defense I want to speak to them before session.”

“Wait,” Danny suddenly says, voice rising above the frantic hum of the lawyers. They pause their conversation and look at him, “On one condition: stop calling what they did to Alex an interrogation. It was torture.”

Mr. Hudson casts a wary look at Ms. Ramsey. “Judges don’t care for that word. They think it’s too political—”

“That is my condition,” Danny firmly replies.

The barristers consult for a moment before Mr. Hudson looks at him and sighs: “Very well.”

They retreat to their usual table and Alex smirks: “Drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”

“I do when it comes to you,” he cheekily replies, nudging Alex’s arm with his shoulder. The man chuckles, shaking his head, but there is love in his eyes and Danny can’t stop looking at him.

“Who do you think it is?” he asks eventually, remembering the mysterious witness.

Alex shakes his head, staring out a nearby window that looks out onto the wall of the neighboring building. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes searching in a way that Danny has only seen when he’s trying to figure out a particularly tough equation.

 

* * *

 

By the time Danny takes his seat on the front bench the press hive is buzzing excitedly about news of the mystery witness. “I bet it’s the Prime Minister,” a reporter says behind Danny’s left shoulder. “Not the Prime Minister, you wanker. We’ve got vans outside Downing Street. Someone would have seen him leave,” a reporter behind his right shoulder replies. “Besides, the Prime Minister wants to defund MI6. Why would he testify for the defense?”

That’s the crux of the matter. MI6 has many enemies, but who would publicly declare to be their friend?

The courtroom stands as the justices enter and then sit while Judge Winograd recites the usual rules: no photography, no talking, please refrain from audibly reacting to the testimonies. Winograd then looks to MI6’s legal team. “Please inform us who your first witness is.”

“Thank you, your honor,” the defense replies, “We requested to keep this next witness confidential so as to avoid harassment by the press. This individual is a private citizen and she feared negative ramifications if her name was leaked…”

Danny shifts on the bench, brow furrowed as he listens, his mind drawing a complete blank. He’s run through the mental rolodex and come up empty.

“The defense calls Kate Holt.”

A surreal moment when the entire prosecution team, plus Alex, turn in their seats and gape at him, and Danny is paralyzed in place, the chorus of murmurs muffled as though someone has plunged his head under water. _No, no_. _It can’t be_. And yet, yes, it is so: his mother walks through a side door, dressed in what must pass as her nicest dress these days—a simple smock dress with floral print, hair newly bleached and permed. Someone must have paid for a makeover and Danny knows who the kindhearted samaritans are.

She almost looks respectable walking to the defense’s table. Their eyes briefly meet and she looks completely unrepentant. Danny wants to lunge at her, slap her face, cry: _bitch, bitch!_ at her, but he is frozen with rage. _What have I done to make you hate me so much?_ he wants to know. He tried to walk away from his family, but even that hasn’t spared him pain.

One by one, the prosecution team turns away from him—all except Alex, who looks like his heart is fracturing in half. Danny doesn’t fully understand why until he realizes his face is wet and he’s crying. He quickly wipes his cheeks and sucks in a breath. He tells himself to be strong. Mr. Hudson touches Alex’s arm, reminding him to face the judges.

The defense’s strategy reveals itself almost immediately.

“Tell us about Daniel Holt’s adolescence,” the barrister prompts.

And his mother delivers the full report: every terrible, wicked thing he’s ever done (and some things that are exaggerated or entirely fabricated). No, Danny did not “punch his father,” though he did defend himself when he was thirteen, the time his father, drunk, attacked him with a hammer. Even then, he simply held him down until he ran out of steam and then Danny fled their flat. Yes, it’s true he did suck off an older man behind a Tesco, but it was when he was fifteen and just figuring out his sexuality, and no, he was not prostituting himself. Yes, he stole money; Yes, he stole candy; Yes, he was nabbed for possession, but all her stories lack the proper context.

This goes on for a while, and shamefully, Danny knows that his mum doesn’t need to reach to think of more ammunition. He was a rotten little shit in his day, but only because he was miserable and lonely. _I’m so much better_ , he wants to say. _I’m good now_. _I’m married to a noble man who loves me. I never lie._

“Does it surprise you that MI6 was concerned about Daniel’s character?” the barrister asks.

His mum almost snorts. “Not in the slightest.”

“ _Objection_ ,” Ms. Ramsey barks, and some of the barristers are already agreeing with her, telling the defense to reword their question, but then they suddenly announce they have no further questions. His mum has accomplished her job. She’s destroyed Danny’s character, thereby bolstering MI6’s claims that he was dangerously unpredictable—someone they had to monitor, someone who could have been a spy—a man so sinister that MI6 was legitimatized in their “enhanced interrogation.”

Mr. Hudson stands slowly and addresses the court. “Mrs. Holt. Do you love your son?”

Danny closely watches her face but she doesn’t visibly react. “Of course I do.”

At least now he knows his penchant for truthfulness isn’t a genetic quality he’s inherited.

 

* * *

 

Alex pulls him into a private washroom located in the corridor that leads to the conference room. It’s small—comprised of just two urinals and one stall—so he instantly knows they’re alone. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Danny loves him a little more for not asking him if he’s okay because of course he is not.

“I hate her,” Danny rasps. His eyes are puffy from crying. His throat is raw from containing sobs of humiliation and outrage. Here they are again: Danny’s name being dragged through the mud. “I always wondered how parents couldn’t love their child, but now I understand: they’re awful people.”

A moment of silence. Voices pass the washroom and they watch the door, shadows passing across the foggy glass.

“You’re good,” Alex quietly insists. “Your heart is pure.” Danny can’t speak. His throat is too tight and his eyes are hot, heralding fresh tears. “You love unlovable people. A child would be lucky to have you as a parent.” He doesn’tknow what to say, but Danny fights the urge to surge forth and kiss Alex, as he always does when the man completely overwhelms him with kindness. Danny still isn’t used to it—doesn’t really know how to accept and process Alex’s lovely words. “I would like that…some day.”

Danny stares at him, uncomprehending. “Like what?” he rasps.

“A child. With you.”

The tears come, burning and furious, but Danny is smiling beneath them. He imagines a lonely child somewhere, staring out a window, watching all the people walking around and zipping past in their cars bound for better futures, wondering which car contains their new parents. “One more stray?” he asks, now understanding that Alex, Scottie, Sara, Pavel, Frances, his parents, Michael Cooper, Marcus Shaw, Rich, Susan Burks, Pricilla—all of them, every single soul, for better or for worse—are part of the same cosmic puzzle that ends with a beautiful vision of his life.

They’re going to be happy. Even after this, happiness will find them, or they’ll seize it from the universe and wrestle it into submission. It will be theirs.

Alex smiles cautiously, an expression he wears when entering unfamiliar terrain. Danny’s expression is confusing him: tears and a smile, so he clarifies by reaching for Alex, cupping the smooth slopes of his cheeks and guiding him into a warm embrace.

 

* * *

 

No one objects when Alex announces he and Danny need to leave for the rest of the day. Alex isn’t testifying and there’s no need for Danny to sit through the remainder of cross-examination. Mr. Hudson tells him to go home and get some rest because tomorrow’s testimony will last the entire day. In the town car, Alex asks him if he’s still feeling up for testifying, and Danny replies that he wants to do it even more now that his mum lied about him in front of the entire country.

“They need to hear my version,” he says.

Danny can’t sleep that night, so he goes downstairs and sits at the kitchen table until Alex wakes and finds him there. He makes them each a cup of tea and they watch telly until the sky turns pink with the rising sun. They dress and eat breakfast in relative silence, then climb into the town car and depart to the courthouse. Mr. Hudson and the whole team eagerly greet him in the conference room, rattling off a deluge of information about what to expect for the day.

“The defense is going to talk about your past. They’ll know everything, even things you think are private.”

“I know,” Danny replies. He doubts anyone knows more about MI6’s devious practices than him.

“I’m going to bring up the HIV scare. I want you to be prepared.”

Danny nods. “I want everyone to know everything.”

Maybe Alex was right this whole time. Radical transparency is the only solution.

 

* * *

 

One of the benefits of his new role as witness is he gets to sit with Alex at the table, though they aren’t allowed to speak. Despite Mr. Hudson’s strict instructions not to communicate at all, Danny brushes his fingers past Alex’s beneath the table when no one is looking.

Mr. Hudson keeps his promise and calls what was done to Alex “torture” when asking Danny questions. He also revisits his mum’s testimony and picks it apart bit-by-bit. They establish his father was a violent alcoholic, and Danny reveals the bit about his mum being addicted to gambling. He talks about growing up gay in a rough neighborhood—how he had the piss beaten out of him more than once for exhibiting what had been deemed by adolescent boys as “gay tendencies.” The only person he felt safe exploring with happened to be a fully grown man, but no, he didn’t take money from him. They discuss the series of bad relationships: how Danny began using drugs in order to ingratiate himself with older, wealthy men, and because he was bored and lost. Danny shares the story about the physically abusive relationship that sent him running to Scottie.

Alex shifts in his chair once or twice, and Danny knows it pains him to hear the details—not out of shame, but because he aches for Danny. He wants to tell Alex not to worry—that he shed that skin long ago, and he feels like a new person at a molecular level these days. If he met that Danny on the street, they probably wouldn’t even recognize each other, and if they did, the now-Danny would simply knowingly smile at him and keep walking. Or maybe he would slip a note into his pocket first: _Things feel bad now. They have to feel bad so you appreciate the good later. The universe is built on contradictions and opposites attracting and repelling over and over. Nothing is stagnate. Everything vibrates. Everything changes. It is scientifically impossible for the bad to last forever._

He tells the bits about finding Alex’s double and the HIV scare. At one point, he begins to cry, and Mr. Hudson pauses to hand him some tissues. He apologizes and cleans up before continuing. Danny tells the barristers about Scottie, about the constant monitoring, about MI6 using his own parents against them. “So I’m not surprised to see my mum here today. It’s keeping with an ongoing theme,” he says, surprised to hear the reporters laughing in response, even over the barristers’ insistence that they quiet down.

It’s a lot, almost too much, but it feels good at the end. He feels cleansed. All the wickedness purged from his body.

Ms. Ramsey embraces him the moment he walks into the conference room. “Well done,” she whispers, her flowery perfume overwhelming him.

“That was superb,” Mr. Hudson confirms, a pridefully glowing Alex standing at his side. “I could tell your testimony really connected with the press and the barristers. I think you undid the damage done by Khan and Hunt, and you definitely undermined your mother’s testimony.”

“Really?” Danny asks and everyone except Alex laughs, but he can tell it’s in a good way, like they can’t imagine Danny ever thinking he didn’t perform well.

“Really. We’ll need you to do it again tomorrow for cross-examination,” Mr. Hudson chuckles.

“I’m proud of you,” Alex later tells him when they’re home at night, curled around each other on the couch, Danny’s head resting against his chest. He sounds shy, and when Danny looks up at him, Alex’s expression is almost bashful.

“Thank you, Mr. Turner,” he purrs, leaning up for a soft, teasing kiss.

“My pleasure, Mr. Turner,” Alex playfully replies and Danny laughs against his shoulder.

He says he’s going to make them a cocktail and rolls off the couch, tossing a flirtatious look over his shoulder because he knows Alex is watching him walk away. Their eyes meet and Alex smiles slowly. Danny rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops dead in his tracks.

There’s a man standing by the double doors that lead into the garden. One of the doors is partly open. He’s dressed all in black, including a balaclava pulled over his face. There’s a large hunting knife clutched in his right hand. With the left, he raises an index finger to his lips. _Don’t shout_. Danny’s heart hammers in his throat. The man mouths to him: _Call him_. He wants Danny to summon Alex into the room. He sucks in a sharp breath and shouts: “Alex, run!” as the man charges forth.

Alex materializes so quickly that Danny will later realize he must have been aware of what was happening. Alex’s senses are sharper than most people’s: a sophisticated palate, perfect vision, and exceptional hearing. Sometimes, the heightened auditory phenomenon results in Alex becoming overwhelmed in crowded areas, but this night it results in him hearing the creek of the intruder’s leather gloves and smelling foreign aftershave. Alex strikes the man in the face with the base of a table lamp, the iron crunching the bone of the intruder’s nose, sending him staggering backwards. Danny shouts in surprise and Alex immediately moves to stand between him and the stranger.

“Fuck!” the man growls and when he peeks over Alex’s shoulder Danny can see blood pouring into his mouth. He recovers and manages to point the knife at them.

“Are you the best they could send?” Alex asks.

Danny watches him, stunned, and the stranger seems equally surprised. All the time he’s known Alex, nothing about this demeanor revealed he could be this: swaggering, aggressive, highly capable under duress, after a total stranger breaks into his home in the dead of night and threatens his partner.

“I got a message for you,” the man growls in a thick cockney accent, and Danny temporarily feels a little better. This is clearly a hired thug—not a sophisticated assassin. Maybe MI6’s stealth agents have all jumped ship. “Don’t testify tomorrow—or else.”

“Right, is that all?” Alex replies, still holding the lamp like a club. The cord rests across the kitchen tiles like a dead snake.

His words come out garbled and Danny wonders if Alex managed to shatter some teeth. “Say you’re retracting your testimony and drop out of the remainder of the hearing.”

Alex hands Danny the lamp and straightens his suit jacket. “Listen to me,” he commands, slowly walking towards the man and Danny reaches out with a free hand, silently begging him not to stray too close, watching in horror as Alex steps within slashing distance, “Tell your employers we’re not frightened of them. This is almost over. Even without the remainder of Danny’s testimony, MI6 is finished.”

“Stay right there,” the man growls, aiming the pointy end at Alex’s chest.

Alex tilts his head slowly, watching him like a fascinated scientist observing an unusual speck of bacteria. “When MI6 is dissolved, the new agency that replaces it is going to hunt down every freelance agent associated with the old guard. Do you really think you’ll be safe?” Danny notices the knife’s tip quivering. The man is shaking. Maybe he’s lightheaded from blood loss. “If I were you, I would leave the country.”

“Fuck off,” the man snarls again.

Alex’s brow gracefully arch. “At the very least, I doubt you want a double murder on your record. And how embarrassing would it be if I managed to overpower and kill you with your own knife?”

The man hesitates for a moment. “I—” He doesn’t speak again, but does step forward and Danny lifts the lamp, prepared to charge, but then realizes the man is maneuvering towards the open garden door. They watch him slip out into the night.

“Alex—” he sighs, the room tilting, and Alex catches him a split second before the lamp crashes to the floor. He doesn’t quite faint, but the room is swimming as Alex carries him back to the couch. He then disappears and Danny fearfully whimpers before he hears the sound of Alex closing and locking the kitchen door. He reappears a moment later.

“I’m here,” he whispers, kneeling on the floor and clutching Danny’s hand.

Danny doesn’t tell him to call the police. There’s no point. He watches Alex stoop to kiss his knuckles and the pulse of his wrist, Danny observing the steep slope of his nose and marveling over how much he adores it, and Alex, so dearly. “Where did that come from?” he finally asks. Alex owlishly blinks, so he clarifies: “I’ve never seen you like that.”

Alex considers his question for a moment. “I can be like that sometimes. If I have to be.”

“It was like Frances was in the room.” He doesn’t mean this as an insult.

Slowly, Alex’s lips curl into a thin smile. “Perhaps she instilled some good in me after all.”

 

* * *

 

Sara and Pavel manage to get into the courtroom for the final day of testimony. Danny sees them in the front row as he walks into the main room. He wiggles his fingers in a half-wave before sitting at the table.

The judges enter, black robes billowing as they stride to their respective seats. Then the defense enters, just the two main lawyers, no support staff, which Danny finds odd until the lead barrister addresses the justices and announces that the defense does not wish to cross-examine Danny.

“Rot in hell, you bastards!” someone shouts from the balcony.

The reporters immediately erupt into frenzied whispering, fingertips clambering away on laptops and tablets, even as Judge Winograd begs for order. There is a woman screaming incoherently in the balcony, and he doesn’t know what she’s saying, but he can tell she’s not a supporter of MI6. Danny hears Sara and Pavel whoop.

“Fucking hell,” one of the younger barristers on their team mutters beneath his breath.

And still Danny doesn’t understand quite what’s happening. He looks to Mr. Hudson, who leans over the table, past Alex, and whispers: “You did it, my boy. They’re folding.”

It seems impossible that a giant like MI6 could fall because of someone small like Danny. And of course, the truth is much more complex: MI6 fell after a series of miscalculations; following the worst intelligence disaster to ever befall the great country of England; after Frances Turner unleashed the full power of her genius. Yet it was Danny who dealt the final blow. When he looks at Alex, the man is smiling with his whole face and Danny laughs, overcome, resting his face in his hand and allowing pure, unbridled happiness to wash over him in a wave of white light.

The tears come later in the conference room when Alex grabs and momentarily lifts him from the floor with the fierceness of his embrace. Danny sobs into his shoulder, desperately trying to quiet himself, and Alex doesn’t let him go until he’s wrung of tears. “It’s over, it’s over,” Alex repeats, and Danny doesn’t know if it’s for his or for Alex’s own benefit, but he absorbs the words and allows them to soothe him.

Judge Winograd visits them personally to explain what happens next: He and the other justices will deliver their recommendations to the Prime Minister. MI6 should be dissolved effective immediately. There will likely be pending criminal charges against Khan, Hunt, and others. Parliament will convene immediately to discuss replacing MI6 with a more transparent organization. Before leaving the conference room, Winograd turns to face Alex. “I was reading about your invention. Very impressive.” Alex, who has never been good at accepting praise, mumbles his thanks. “You were seeking a kind of ultimate transparency. The end of lies. Isn’t that correct?” When Alex nods, he smiles slowly. “In a sense, you got your way.”

 

* * *

 

Without the stress of a trial looming their schedule suddenly expands in an infinite number of directions. They debate how to spend their days, and at first casually wade back into the rest of life that does not include MI6. They go on country walks. Alex reads the paper aloud while Danny cooks. They go to dinner and the theatre, a normal couple until someone recognizes them and excitedly whispers to their friend or asks for a photo (Alex always politely declines), but those moments have become increasingly rarer as more time passes. The news has moved on and forgotten them, now obsessed with the idea of the next MI6, and who will possibly oversee it.

“Would you work for the new organization?” Danny asks one evening when they’re watching the news.

Alex does not dismiss the idea outright. “I miss the work,” he replies.

Sometimes Danny sees him sketching out equations in notebooks and knows he misses having the focus of a tangible goal. Danny runs his fingers through Alex’s hair. “You could do anything,” he says, truly believing it. Alex is brilliant. He just needs to pick a path, or forge an entirely new one.

“What about you?” Alex asks. “What do you want to do?”

He’s been asking himself that question his whole life. He tried to surrender the decision to Scottie when he handed him his journal, but Scottie just said he lacked focus, which of course is the whole problem. “I don’t know how to do anything,” he sighs.

“Yes, you do,” Alex says immediately and uses his own words against him: “You could do anything.”

 

* * *

 

“Promise not to be cross,” Alex says Sunday morning when Danny is standing vulnerably in the kitchen in a bathrobe and fluffy slippers, hair wild and eyes barely open. Pricilla circles his feet, unsubtly begging for breakfast. His finger hovers over the on button of the coffee maker because tea just won’t do the trick.

He stares at Alex in confusion, watching as the man fumbles with his briefcase and pulling out a magazine.

“What’re you talking about?” he asks, shuffling over to the table.

Upon closer inspection, he sees that the magazine is actually a literary journal. “I submitted one of your pieces,” Alex blurts, immediately rushing to explain, “I wasn’t going to tell you in case you were rejected, but…look,” he says, flipping to page twenty-two, where a piece by Daniel H. is printed, and when he stoops closer, Danny recognizes one of the first short stories he wrote. He’d shown it to Alex in an uncharacteristically confident moment. It’s a story about a little lost boy who finds a hidden cave in the forrest and the cave leads to a tunnel which leads to a world where he is king.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Alex interprets his silence as anger. “I’m sorry. I thought it would make you happy—”

He touches Alex’s hand, preventing him from closing the journal. His fingertips trace the words, down the page to a small illustration of one of the scenes he described. The little boy crawling through a long, dark, frightening tunnel, chasing a few dim rays of light.

“I can’t believe you did this..” he begins, his face warm.

Scottie loved and supported him, but he wouldn’t have done this. He would have probably scribbled some notes on the short story and told Danny to try again. But somehow the optimism hasn’t been snuffed from Alex’s heart. It was the meek, hopeful voice that told Alex to go upstairs with Danny—to give the strange young man whom he met on the Thames a chance. It was his ability to survive inside the trunk; to persevere through his renovations of the cabin. He may not have thought he would find a soulmate—that was always Danny’s optimistic heart spinning that yarn—but he must have believed something gleamed on the horizon in order to climb out of bed every morning. It was an impulse deeper than survival, some ancient desire Alex kept tucked away in his heart—the hope that things would be better someday—and now they are.

“I love you,” Alex simply answers, and it’s strange how such a frail confession could come from a man of his stature. He wonders if anything has ever scared Alex as much as realizing he was in love.

Danny sits across his lap, looping his arms around Alex’s neck and tenderly kisses him. The beard is starting to grow in again and Danny silently prays he won’t shave. He’s beginning to understand he can have it all: Alex, as he was in the cabin, but here in London. They will be able to live in peace, perhaps while pursuing their passions. There will be a child some day. Danny will walk into the parlor and see Alex reading to them, or perhaps telling them a story that goes like this:

One day, a lonely man went for a run and found a lost boy…

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr! theaoidos.tumblr.com


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